


Warm the Lonely Nights

by Edwardina



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam goes to New York for New Year's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuckener](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckener/gifts).



> Written for [kumpez](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kumpez/pseuds/kumpez) for the Canoe Secret Santa, based off her prompt. This takes place after 410 and includes mentions of Sam/Brittany and an uncomfortable dose of Brody/Rachel.
> 
> Title from "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.
> 
> Thank you to Kate for the second set of eyes and for the sweet sweet kisses!

Sam sat, blinking, on the couch, listening to city sirens howling in the distance, a faucet in the nearby kitchen area dripping restlessly, and Kurt and Rachel having a furtive whispered argument behind a curtain.

He didn't know what he'd imagined Kurt's apartment to be like, but if he'd had to hazard a guess, he wouldn't have said "the size of a parking garage, a probable tetanus hazard, and way outside of Manhattan."

The only other time he'd been to New York, he'd been asses and elbows in a nice hotel room with all the other guys in glee in the heart of the city. Room service cleaned up after them and even made their cots. There were down comforters. When the club had sneaked out, they'd eaten from hot dog vendors in Times Square and run around Central Park and taken pictures in front of signs and things like tourists. Sam was also familiar with Kurt's house, with its tidiness and shiny wooden floors and stainless steel fridge, and Kurt's bedroom, with its white walls, built-in bookshelves neatly organized with things that weren't 7661 Jedi Starfighters with Hyperdrive Boosters built out of _Star Wars_ Legos (or anything else similar to what Sam crammed into his shelves), leather headboard, and his mirrored vanity hidden off in a corner.

This was... different. This place had grime eating through the paint and a mouse trap set up in one corner, and it obviously didn't offer much in the way of privacy between Kurt and Rachel. They didn't have bedrooms, really, just curtains hung on lines between stocky wooden beams to separate where they slept from the rest of their living space. The furniture all looked like Craigslist or flea market finds. A Christmas tree stood in the corner with only a few ornaments still hanging on it, just a remnant from the previous week.

The couch was like some kind of ancient, utilitarian, welded futon, and its seat was so wide and deep Sam felt like he was sinking as the minutes ticked by and he sat there with his backpack by his feet, locking and unlocking his fingers.

After a couple of minutes, the leaky faucet and its steady _plink... plink... plink_ became too much, so Sam heaved himself from the couch and wandered into the kitchen area to find the source of the noise. 

The kitchen was open, just like everything else. There was hardly any counter space, so a wooden table had been pushed against the wall next to the stove to add more. He saw a wooden cutting board and a few mugs drying in a rack, a pile of mail and magazines. The large sink stood on its own and looked super heavy. But the faucet itself didn't seem to be leaking. Dish rags were hanging from a bar just below it, but when he pushed one aside curiously, Sam saw that a mixing bowl had been placed on the floor under the incoming pipe. The water in it rippled every time a drop slid from the pipe – _plink_. 

"Here we go," he murmured to himself, squinting at the pipe above it. He could see where the water was freely escaping over one of the nuts.

"Sam is clearly confused, okay..." 

It was Rachel; the pitch of her voice had raised just high enough for him to hear. Kurt argued back under his breath.

Sam's train of thought lagged for a moment. Then he refocused and reached under the sink to grip at the nut. It was wet and slippery with a film of grime, but it slid around the pipe with the coax of his grip, and he concentrated hard, the insides of his knuckles slipping rawly over the slick metal.

He was squatting there in front of their sink, making sure it wasn't still dripping because it still had a leak but just because it was still wet, when Kurt swept the curtain back.

"Sam – ? Where'd he go?" Rachel said.

"Over here. You guys have a loose nut," said Sam, grimacing with the effort of making sure he couldn't budge the screw any more. Kurt and Rachel rounded the corner, both with their arms crossed. Since they were both wearing black, they looked kind of intimidating standing there like that.

"Did you have a wrench in your backpack?" Kurt asked dryly.

"Nah," replied Sam. "I'm just using my hand."

He caught Rachel pursing her lips thoughtfully at Kurt.

"Okay, Brody may be able to do four hundred crunches a day and make turkey in a bag, but does he fix leaky faucets with his bare hands?" Kurt asked her, voice slipping out of the corner of his mouth.

"I thought you didn't want to hear any more about what Brody's bare hands can do."

"Yeah. I don't." Kurt shifted his attention with a grimace. "You don't have to do that, Sam. Our building manager will take care of it whenever he finishes editing his _Mad Men_ porn parody. That's just my latest guess about what he's doing instead of fixing our sink."

"Oh." Sam stood up, shaking a mucky hand. "Well, I was just looking. It beat sitting around while you guys decided whether to kick me out or not."

"Don't be silly!" said Rachel, advancing a step. She was wearing a super short, super tight skirt and really tall, high-heeled boots that made Sam think randomly of Shania Twain, but still didn't manage to be as tall as Kurt. "We'd never turn any of our friends away. Just... do you wanna tell us what happened?"

Sam felt his mouth flatten as he glanced between Rachel (concerned), Kurt (dubious), their mismatched dining chairs, and the rust all over the back of their big sliding front door. He knew that the momentary stall could stretch on for an hour and it still wouldn't make his story any less weird, so he just took a deep breath and let it spill out of him like the mess it was: "I'm totally in love with Brittany and even though she was all freaked out by internet lesbians, Coach Beiste married us 'cause of the Mayan Apocalypse, but then that didn't happen and we found out we weren't actually legally married and the end of days just means the start of some new ones, or something, and it was such a bummer, and then Santana found out and..."

"She slapped you," Rachel guessed.

Sam shook his head. He was surprised she hadn't, actually.

"Threatened to cut your mouth wider like The Joker's?" asked Kurt, index finger tracing a curve along his own cheek.

"No, but I like that guess," Sam said. In his Blaine-less despair around Valentine's Day, Kurt had agreed to watch _The Dark Knight_ if Sam would watch _Brokeback Mountain_ , and Kurt had been shocked that Sam had kept up his end of the bargain. _It's Saint Ledger's Day!_ Sam had replied, wide-eyed with mock seriousness, and gotten a good laugh.

"Well, it's Santana," Rachel said. "I think it's safe to say she flipped out if you and Brittany... got married?" 

She was obviously trying not to sound quizzical and failing. Sam nodded, chewing on the inside of his lip, and wiped his damp hand over the back pocket of his jeans.

"She got Brittany to break up with me. She said Brittany shouldn't feel pressured to get married and that I played some kind of mind game with her to make her do it. But I didn't. I swear. I don't think you can make somebody marry you. This isn't _The Princess Bride_. We just really wanted to be together if the world was gonna end, and we were, and it was great – and yeah, the world didn't actually end. There wasn't even a rapture. So when Santana got home for Christmas, she and Brittany..." He took another deep breath. It puffed out of him hugely. "You know, they're just best friends now and don't have lady sex anymore, but Brittany's still pretty in love with her, so our marriage was a sham in more ways than one. I wish the world would've just ended."

At his gargantuan sigh, Rachel said, "Oh. I'm sorry, Sam. That's so sad. I didn't know you and Brittany were so close."

"They weren't," Kurt said, clipped, and strode over to the sink. Sam backed up to give him room, but Kurt shook his head and said, "Nope. Come here. Wash your hands. We still have some Winter Candy Apple anti-bacterial hand soap from Christmas. Do you mind your hands smelling like you're smuggling a bunch of Skittles in your pockets?"

Sam shook his head once, watching Kurt turn on the faucet and then dropping his gaze to his palm. It was still streaked with gunk and rust.

"Well, I get that it's really hard for you to lose her like that," Rachel said. "Break-ups suck. We're all break-up experts by now. But was coming to New York really the answer? I mean, you can't just not go to school and miss glee. It's your senior year. And won't your parents be worried about you?"

Kurt grabbed Sam's elbow and shepherded his filthy hand into the sink, expression strict. Sam obediently stuck his hand under the running water, vaguely embarrassed at Rachel's presence for some reason. Maybe it was just because he was used to living with Kurt and even doing the dishes with him some nights, but Rachel had a much different vibe than any of the Hummels or Finn. She seemed like she was trying to talk him into going back to Lima. The water was warm.

"I just... Puck's back in L.A. and Blaine's been busy... and if I let on with my parents that anything was wrong, they'd probably transfer me back to my old school in Kentucky, since our competition season's over. Glee club getting to Nationals last year the reason my family decided it was okay for me to do my senior year in Lima, too. Uh..." Kurt was rubbing his thumb into the crevice of Sam's palm; the sensation was distracting. "School doesn't start up again till Monday and I can call in a couple of absences in my dad's voice, no problem. I used to do it all the time to pick up extra shifts at... Stallionz."

Another vague flush warmed Sam's ears; Rachel had actually seen him on stage there, and getting caught like that by her was probably the most humiliating thing about the whole job. He hadn't actually minded the stripping part – in fact, he'd excelled at it – but he could still remember the feeling of the dollar in her hand and the sick flop of his stomach when he realized who he was taking money from.

He finished, "I just need to get away from everything for a few days. Then I can go back and be there for the glee club and everybody like always."

Kurt lifted Sam's much cleaner hand to the soap's pump. Sam just let him move his arm as if he was a big action figure, especially since Kurt wasn't saying much of anything and he couldn't tell if Kurt was annoyed or angry with him for showing up out of the blue on New Year's Eve or just grossed out by him wiping his hand on his jeans. After a second, the scent of the soap wafted up, and it smelled so good that Sam was distracted from his woes and bent over to try and sniff it better. It did smell kind of like candy.

"Well, it's fine with me if you stay for a few days," Rachel said. "But Kurt and I have some New Year's plans and things to do to prep him for his first day at NYADA, so I hope you don't mind that we're busy."

Sam's lips pressed together and rolled under his teeth to give him something to bite harmlessly as he nodded. Right. He couldn't really be surprised that Rachel and Kurt, busy black-wearing New Yorkers that they were now, were busy on New Year's Eve. They probably had a bunch of NYADA-people parties to go to.

"You'll have to sleep on the couch," Kurt said. His fingertips were sliding between Sam's fingers, slippery with soap. "It's not really that comfortable."

Sam's weathered hopes lifted.

"I slept on motel floors for months after we lost our house. I can sleep anywhere."

"Sheesh," Kurt said. Sam didn't know what that was for.

"Kurt, are you okay with this, then?" Rachel asked.

"Well, kicking Sam out after he came all this way would be tantamount to leaving a wet puppy out in the rain, so." Kurt twisted the faucet off and stuffed a clean dish towel into Sam's hand, apparently content to let him dry it himself even though he had basically just washed it for him. "Yeah. It's fine."

"Kurt had unexpected guests for Christmas," Rachel told Sam. "I think he needs some time to veg."

"It's fine," Kurt repeated. "Between Christmas and today, it sounds like my holiday plans are probably just not meant to be. You might as well go call Brody and take him up on that invite. If he hasn't already gotten naked with Cassie..."

"Ew, don't you dare," Rachel retorted. "He said it wouldn't happen again."

"Uh-huuuh," said Kurt.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Go on. Go to that party and enjoy being accosted about your talent by everyone whose socks you blew off at the winter showcase."

"Okay, but you're not secretly sad, are you?"

"What, that I won't be kissing you at midnight?"

Rachel shot Kurt an exaggerated pout, and Sam saw Kurt roll his eyes and smile, tiny and tight, as Rachel turned away to dial her phone. Sam took the opportunity to grasp at Kurt's elbow with his clean, dry, sweet-smelling hand, asking silently for his attention.

"Dude," he murmured, voice low with seriousness, "I don't have to be here. You can tell me to pack up and go home. I'd get it."

He watched as Kurt's expression shifted, his brow perking slowly and his eyes taking in Sam's face, truly, for the first time in months. His mouth opened and then shut again gently to pull into another one of those forced smiles.

"You're fine. You needed to get away from it all and you couldn't go home. I understand. I wish I had a place to go. And money to go there."

"You don't want to be in New York? For New Year's?" Sam asked.

"Ugh. I know. I've always wanted to be here, in the middle of everything, to see the ball drop and watch them filming _New Year's Rockin' Eve_ in Times Square. It was just kind of a stressful holiday."

"What happened?"

"Oh – too soon, Sam," said Kurt, shaking his head. His hair, which looked shiny and tightly styled, actually bounced loosely. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Okay. But if you do want to, you know I'll listen, right?"

"I know. You were always pretty good at making it through my diatribes and panic attacks."

They shared the same smile – a real one, this time. Sam was thinking about fishing his handkerchief from his pocket to offer to Kurt as he cried about Blaine having to have surgery, and of Kurt fixing him a pity protein shake and petting his shoulder blade sympathetically when Mercedes had refused to get back together with him. Maybe Kurt was, too. It was exactly why he'd bought a bus ticket to New York in the first place.

Rachel turned back around. She was cradling her phone in her hands, looking distinctly smug.

With a flash of discomfort, Sam let go of Kurt's elbow, and Kurt said abruptly, "I don't hear the sink!"

Rachel paused, tilted her head, and listened, and Sam perked his ears, too, mouth twitching up when all he heard were those sirens somewhere.

"You fixed it!" she exclaimed.

"So what's the plan?" Kurt hurried on, before Sam could grunt like Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor. "Are you ringing in the new year with your man?"

"Yes," beamed Rachel. "We're going to a party a friend of Brody's friend's roommate is hosting. _His_ ex-roommate is one of the Elders from _Book of Mormon_! I can't believe it! On the arm of my dashing TA, hobnobbing with denizens of Broadway... ugh, Kurt, I wish you'd come. You could meet some upperclassmen, maybe make some connections..."

Kurt pushed his hands into his pockets. "No, no. That's okay. I really just want to relax and change into sweatpants, slob around. Maybe Sam and I will order in Chinese and I can convince him to watch _Casablanca_ with me."

"No," Rachel said immediately. "No. I'm sorry, it's New Year's Eve and Sam is here all the way from Lima! If you're not going to Isabelle's and you're not coming out with me and Brody, you have to at least take Sam out on the town. You're not greeting 2013 in sweatpants. You at least have to go watch the ball drop! You deserve to have a good time! Promise me, okay!"

"Maybe," said Kurt, with an appraising glance at Sam. Sam gave an open shrug, trying to show he didn't mind sweatpants and take-out, even though going out on the town seemed like fun. Kurt probably saw the indecision in his face, because he said, "Okay, Rachel. I promise. Sam and I will watch the ball drop."

"That's the right attitude for a new year," said Rachel approvingly. "Now, I have a couple of hours before I need to change into some amazing outfit that you're going to put together for me, right? Let's go grab some coffee and bagels at our favorite little place and show Sam where that old crack-dealing cat hoarder lady lived. Seriously, they were filming an episode of _Hoarders_ there when we moved in."

"It's true, she had over fifty cats in this tiny little walk-up," said Kurt. "That always cheers me up. Grab your coat and let's go, Sam."

 

*

 

It was clear pretty fast that Rachel and Kurt had grown accustomed to functioning as a unit, and Sam was a third wheel. But really, he didn't feel particularly left out or unwelcome with them, even though he didn't have a New York bone in his body and the neighborhood where they lived was even shadier than the one where Sam's family had lived their first few weeks in Kentucky. He walked alongside Rachel's other side as she and Kurt strolled arm-in-arm to the cafe they frequented, and when they crossed the street, she slipped her arm around his, too, linking the three of them together so Sam wouldn't get left behind in the bustle.

They didn't ask about McKinley or how anyone there was; he was sure Kurt didn't want to hear about Blaine, and if Rachel was seeing some new guy, she probably didn't want to hear about Finn, either. And Sam didn't exactly mind not being asked. The abrupt end of his Mayan marriage to Brittany and the fact that she hadn't seemed to be broken up about telling him they should just be friends – and not the kind that have sex, either – was still too fresh in his mind. He totally got Kurt not wanting to talk about his difficult Christmas. At least Kurt hadn't thought he was married for, like, a week.

Kurt seemed to cheer up with the hot paper cup of coffee and bagel. Sam didn't normally consume either of those things, but he took what Rachel bought for him gratefully, as it warmed his hands and he hadn't eaten anything in a while.

"You know, I feel a change in the air," Rachel noted, and Sam didn't miss the way Kurt's eyes seemed to shine as he looked up into the gray winter sky.

"A good change?" Sam asked.

"A great change!" she declared. "What should I wear tonight?"

"Something recklessly sexy," Kurt answered. "It's a little cold to show off your amazing legs, though. I vote something long and low-cut."

"What about me?" joked Sam. "What should I wear for the ball drop?"

"Do you still have that bolo tie?" Kurt shot back, grinning.

 

*

 

They saw Rachel off later, and her dress was totally low-cut, tight, and navy blue, and her new guy stared at her boobs in it so obviously that Kurt elbowed Sam in amusement. She was helped into a coat, bid them a merry good-bye, and with the sliding of the loft door, Kurt and Sam were alone. It was quiet, except for those sirens. Sam wondered whether they were the same sirens as earlier.

Kurt's hands gathered in front of him almost demurely. Then he seemed to reconsider and crossed his arms, looking a little like he was hugging himself.

"I wonder if I should change," he said.

Sam knew from the time he'd spent living at Kurt's that it was a rhetorical question; no one had the chops to advise Kurt on what to wear and when and why. If they tried to, they were probably wrong. Even though his outfit then was incredibly simple, at least in terms of the things Kurt used to wear at McKinley, his black turtleneck paired with black jeans and boots seemed, like, stylish somehow. Maybe it was the really big buttons on the overly-generous folded neck of his shirt. Sam shrugged.

"You look fine to me."

He immediately wanted to kick himself for being awkward, although he didn't know why. It was the truth, and Kurt was a guy, not a girl, so "fine" should've sufficed, but it almost sounded like an insult instead. If he was with Brittany or Mercedes or Quinn – or any girl, really – Sam would've said, _Nah, you don't need to change. You look beautiful_ (or sexy or stunning or something equally flattering). But his instincts with Kurt were... all off. They always had been. Something about Kurt made him feel kinda nervous.

It wasn't really a bad nervousness, and it wasn't Kurt's fault. Kurt was great. He was comforting and sympathetic, and even though Sam didn't get a lot of his pop culture references, Kurt didn't get many of Sam's, either, so the times they had hung and talked, it had always been about Sam's troubles with Mercedes or Kurt's troubles with Blaine. Just real talk, and real comfort. He was so comforting, actually, that Sam had come to New York knowing from experience that Kurt would make him feel better after a kick in the nuts from a girl. And they'd had some fun nights back in Lima, too, watching Heath Ledger movies and NatGeo shows and singing bits and pieces of glee songs in the kitchen while putting together organic oatmeal cranberry cookies. 

But since Kurt wasn't really a guy's guy, like Blaine, Sam didn't want to overshoot and say something stupid that would come off wrong, or – flirty, like on accident. Not because there was anything wrong with that; he just couldn't tell what Kurt would think if he told Kurt he looked good already.

He dropped his head and pushed his fingers through his hair casually, dropping the whole line of thought.

"I suppose it would be silly to dress up," Kurt said, and headed towards the kitchen area. "There's leftover chicken cacciatore. If we're going to stand around in Times Square for hours, we better protein up."

"We don't really have to watch the ball drop if you don't want," Sam said, watching Kurt from his casual slump on the couch. The place was so big, Kurt seemed far away.

"Don't you want to?"

"We can watch it on TV," Sam offered.

Kurt's head bobbed thoughtfully from side to side in almost a sing-song way as he rescued some Tupperware from the fridge. 

Sam felt his mouth wandering around and bit down on it. He'd intruded into Kurt's space and New Year's plans, but he also had the feeling that Kurt hadn't really wanted to go to that NYADA party and had found Sam a useful excuse. Sam thought Kurt might've had Chinese/ _Casablanca_ plans with Rachel, but cut her free when Sam had turned up.

"It's super cold outside, and when I was getting on the train, there were a billion people in Times Square already. We can just pile on comfy clothes and stay warm and eat chicken cacciatore here. And we can watch _Casablanca_ , too. If you want."

"You don't think that's lame?" Kurt asked, shooting Sam an uncertain look over one shoulder. "You don't think I should be greeting 2013 with one of those little party blower things and a crazy hat?"

"You don't need it to be New Year's to wear a crazy hat."

Kurt tilted his head, conceding the point.

"What would you do if I wasn't here?" asked Sam.

"Well, if you weren't here, and Rachel wasn't here, then I'd probably just... have _Casablanca_ on and clean out my closet. On New Year's Eve I always make my dad dinner, and I always get rid of old stuff and arrange the new while I watch movies. After that I stay up irresponsibly late devouring Christmas hauls on YouTube, and then I get up just in time for brunch."

"Let's do that," suggested Sam.

"... Really? You want to clean my closet?"

"Well, it's just standing right in the middle of the place," said Sam, looking over his shoulder at Kurt's rack of clothes.

"I don't have any new things to make room for this year, anyway, so actually, it'd just be dinner and movies." Kurt reached out and picked up a bottle from the table that was pretending to be a counter top. He waved it in Sam's direction with his mouth tilted up sheepishly. "I've got wine, if that'll help. A guest at my orphan Thanksgiving brought it. They had no idea I'm underage, I'm sure."

Sam grinned at him. "This just turned into a party. Do you wanna order Chinese, too? My treat, since you didn't slam the door in my face."

Brightening, Kurt sealed the top back onto the box of chicken cacciatore. "Sounds fair enough!"

 

*

 

At 11:59 PM, Sam and Kurt were parked on the couch in the darkened apartment, where they'd been for several hours, pigging out and coming up with New Year's resolutions. Sam's were to stop falling in love with lesbians, quit the Left Behind Club, and give up reading about Nostradamus. Kurt's were to concentrate on giving NYADA 110% of his effort (which, yes, he realized was mathematically impossible), cut back on eating take-out, and, at Sam's suggestion, find a better couch.

The coffee table, which Kurt had pointed out was actually a bench he'd found upturned in the alley next to the crack-dealing cat hoarder's apartment building and re-finished, was littered with take-out boxes; Kurt's one last hurrah. The only lights were the TV and a few small candles flickering in red holders Kurt had lit for ambiance during _Casablanca_. Despite the sinky couch, Sam was pretty comfortable, especially after the clear plastic cups of wine (which hadn't gone with the Chinese at all, but neither of them minded). He hadn't even fallen asleep during the movie although he was really tired out after the long bus trip, getting lost about eight times trying to find their place, the tour of Kurt and Rachel's neighborhood, and the alcohol. Maybe it was the coffee.

His arm was kind of asleep, though. He'd flung it along the back of the couch earlier and now Kurt was leaning on it right at the elbow, head nestled. Sam was taking it as a sign that Kurt was comfortable sitting there with him, so he just let it tingle numbly and leaned back, too, wide awake.

The TV's volume was low, but it seemed like the sound of people chanting was either emanating through a wall or up from the street, and Ryan Seacrest wouldn't shut up.

"Oh, this is it. There it goes," Kurt said as the great glowing ball began ratcheting down its pole, pulsating with light. "Say goodbye to 2012."

"High highs, this year, and low lows," said Sam. "Ready for a new one."

"I'll drink to that," Kurt said, draining the last of his wine. The back of his hair rubbed against Sam's arm, then he leaned forward and set the cup by Sam's on the coffee table. Sam wondered if he was going to lean back again. He did, pillowing his head just where it had been.

They watched in relative silence, the screen reflecting hoards of New Yorkers squashed together with signs in their hands and crowns on their heads and their breaths puffing in the air as they counted down together in overwhelming unison. "Ten! Nine! Eight!"

"Seven," Kurt piped, "six – count, Sam, come on –"

He whapped Sam in the chest lightly with the back of one hand, and Sam opened his mouth, but the first thing he thought of was Brittany and their countdown till the end of the world. They hadn't made it till midnight, that last night. They'd fallen asleep playing their own made-up game of Apocalypse Bingo, using Dots to mark the cards they'd drawn on notebook paper (he could still remember that he had "zombies," "The Rapture," "666," and " _Gossip Girl_ finale" covered with Dots), and had woken up to the harsh light of day. It was like one last stab of sadness, and it stole his voice for the last lightning-fast few seconds of the year.

"Three, two," Kurt was saying, batting at him in rhythm.

"One," he managed to get out along with Kurt and everyone else in New York, and then fell silent again as the TV screen showed confetti raining down from skyscraper windows and fireworks going off high above them. Everyone in Times Square was screaming, hugging and kissing, taking pictures on their phones. "Auld Lang Syne" piped in and Ryan Seacrest talked right over it. Kurt watched, too, then he turned the perk of a smile at Sam.

"Well, we made it. And if Rachel asks, we were out there in the thick of it and we saw Ryan Seacrest kiss Al Roker. So... Happy New Year."

He said it like it was a shared joke, or something, and gave Sam's chest another friendly whack.

Sam's mouth curled up on one side, and again, he opened it with the intention of saying words, but nothing happened. His chest felt tight and funny under the near weightlessness of Kurt's lingering hand. He pushed up the other side of his mouth so he could at least smile back.

"Aw, are you okay? You look tired," said Kurt. "Too much wine?"

"Happy New Year," found its way out of Sam's mouth.

Kurt laughed and patted him briefly. "Okay. You seem like you need a pillow and a blanket and some sleep."

He was up and padding off in his bare feet, sweatpants, and henley towards his sectioned-off room before Sam could tell him that he was really wide awake, and honestly not drunk or anything. His slight buzz had only left him warm, not sloshed, and had been gone for a while. But he sat, still as he'd been the whole time Kurt had leaned on his arm, and shut his eyes for a few seconds, regret tugging at him. He guessed it was about Brittany. Or maybe it was because he wasn't home, banging pots and pans and setting off firecrackers with his parents and little brother and half-asleep little sister, hugging them first thing. The thing was, he was where he wanted to be. He'd spent all his Christmas money on his bus ticket, totally sure New York was where he wanted to go.

He was looking at the TV, but not really watching anymore, when Kurt came back with bedding – and lots of it. He had at least three blankets that Sam could see, distinctly different colors and patterns and some familiar fuzz, and was barely managing to keep them all bunched under his arm.

"It's drafty and gets cold in here at night," Kurt said, "so here, I brought you all our spares."

"Thanks." 

Sam pushed himself off the sagging couch. Kurt tucked the pillow against the arm nearest him, then dropped the blankets onto the seat. They were such a pile, they just toppled over, two falling right off it onto the floor. 

"This furry one," Sam said, fingers tangling in soft but weird, artificial tufts. "Isn't it from your bed?"

"Yeah. I used to have it on my bed back in Ohio. And that pink quilt with the roses on it is from Rachel's house. And I think this one's from Finn's old room. It has horses on it. Very western."

Kurt stooped and snagged at the blankets, returning them to the pile, then cupped one white hand around each of the little votive holders, blowing out the candles in quick, practiced succession. Smoke curled up idly from the blackened wicks. When he straightened, he was bathed in nothing but the glow of Times Square glittering with phone flashes and fireworks.

"Happy New Year," said Sam again, meaning it more this time, and after a beat he gave Kurt an awkward too-big hug.

"Oh! Um! Yeah! Happy New Year to you, too," said Kurt, laughing lightly in Sam's ear and touching the round of Sam's shoulder.

Sam let out a sad puff and felt Kurt's smooth cheek grace his neck.

It almost hurt to let Kurt go – he really needed a hug. But he couldn't ask for it from Kurt. It felt weird to hug him for too long, and he didn't want to be weird. He was already obviously hugging him too much. So Sam took his arms back and inched away.

The hand that was gingerly framing his deltoids slid, light, skipping down his elbow and brushing the back of Sam's. Instinctively, Sam grasped, not totally aware of how peculiar that was until he had Kurt's hand in his and was holding it.

After a second, Kurt politely took his hand back and said, "Okay. Get some sleep, Sam. You'll feel better in the morning, especially if you like brunch."

He was drifting away, then, taking the little white takeout boxes with him and popping them shut again, silhouetted first in moonlight and then in the dim light of the fridge as he stowed the rest of the spring rolls, orange chicken, and fried rice. Sam could feel his brain turning off, his thoughts slinking away under mental floorboards.

Sam wasn't sleepy, but it was definitely time for bed. He collapsed onto the couch, grasping at the blankets and pulling the furry one over him.

 

*

 

When he woke, it was to the blare of sirens.

He'd actually somehow forgotten about how they'd wailed at least once an hour yesterday, except for the hour or so leading up to midnight, and he'd managed to stop noticing them amongst the white noise of the city most of the time, but these must have raced by on the block or somewhere right next to it. The sirens weren't what woke him up, though – it was the smell of food.

"... was fun, but. Kind of overrated."

"I don't believe that." Rachel's voice.

His peeled his eyed open and saw the army green of Kurt's couch an inch from his nose; his face was kind of tucked into the corner, and he was on his belly, wrapped in Kurt's furry black coverlet, one leg sticking over the arm, gym sock drooping half off his foot.

"No, it was really cold, and we didn't get there early enough to get a good spot so we couldn't see squat, and there were so many drunk people... it was a legit New York experience, just not worth the effort. And I swear, time slowed down at around ten PM. It took forever. And the ball? Not that big. I don't get the fuss."

"Oh. Did your gray mood carry over to the new year?"

" – No! No. Unlike my many visitors, I sent it on its merry way. As I was saying, orange zest. Too fancy?"

"Mmm, never! I want all the fancy food!"

"Sleeping Beauty over there had better wake up soon. I need to whip the cream and that old mixer your dads handed down to you is loud."

"I'll whip it by hand," Rachel placated.

"Hm! You look a little too smug for my comfort. Check back with me in five minutes when your arm is falling off."

"I can do kitchen things!" claimed Rachel. The fridge opened and shut. "I can't believe you make your own granola. I mean, I can. You are the son Ina Garten wishes she could hand her legacy to. You've just never made it for me, and I love granola! I'm offended."

"It's Sam's breakfast of choice, with a side of plain yogurt and a little bit of fruit."

"Ahhh. Now I see why I woke up to a text begging me to get yogurt on the way home."

"Don't. But I'm glad you decided to show, or it would've just been me, myself, and Sam. I thought there was a chance you might just lounge around in a naked, sweaty pile with Mr. Turkey In A Bag."

A giggle. "I told you we were going to do brunch, just you and me, roomies and platonic life partners. Little did I know that Sam was going to be here, too, or I'd have invited Brody, but I wouldn't miss the start of a tradition. Hey, so did you find out anything else about Sam and Brittany?"

"No! No, no, no. No, no. That's... something I've been trying hard to scrub from my brain."

"I just mean, was it some kind of mental health break, like Britney Spears's first marriage –"

"I don't want to know! I don't want to know!! It's not like Sam at all. Actually, okay, proposing to girls is exactly like Sam. But the apocalypse? I don't know. And I don't think I want to believe that was a reason to fake-marry a girl who writes everything in crayon."

"Shh," Rachel advised, and the conversation dropped to a whisper Sam had to listen hard for. "... seems lonely."

"... came _here_..."

"Well, he lived with you, and now... if Brittany... Santana... hardly be surprised."

"You need to be whipping faster."

Sam waited a couple of minutes, staring at the couch and listening to the conversation drift back over to the ball drop. Kurt was obviously determined to act like he saw it in person, for some reason Sam didn't quite get, but he was willing to back him up with all the details he could remember from TV if she asked.

"Did you kiss anybody at midnight? If not Sam, a nearby stranger, perhaps?" Rachel asked.

"No, oh God. No. Rachel. Please."

At that, Sam picked his head up, blinking, and grunted softly as his neck made it apparent to him that between the bus and the couch and the weight of the depression Sam had been lugging around the past week, it was stressed out.

"Oh, good, you're awake!" said Kurt, speaking much more loudly. "Now I can throw on the bacon and the vinyl! Not in that order!"

Sam ached, but he sat up, blinking at the way the apartment had apparently been tidied while he'd slept. He'd also slept through Rachel getting home, and he wasn't sure how, since the metal door was kind of a racket – she was still wearing last night's dress, though she wasn't as immaculate as when she'd left, and instead of heels she was wearing houseshoes. And, looking over at the kitchen, he'd clearly slept through Kurt being up and at 'em for a little while now.

The table was all laid out with plastic flutes and plates, plus a flower arrangement in a squat vase with white candles just waiting to be lit. A cookie sheet was cooling on the table-slash-counter. And Kurt himself was dressed up – or, at least, he was dressed, snappy as Sam had ever seen him, in an orange button-up tucked into pristine white jeans. The little scarf he had knotted at his throat was white, too, and so were the shoes with silver wingtips that Sam recognized. His socks were brown and orange argyle. He was wearing an apron, too. As Kurt leaned to rest the needle onto a record, it hit Sam out of nowhere that Kurt was skinnier than he remembered, and maybe taller. Some old-sounding music came on.

"Morning, Sam," chirped Rachel, laboring at a mixing bowl with a wire whisk. Her eyeliner was smudged, but not in the practiced way Kurt had smudged it for her. "How'd you sleep?"

"Mm," Sam responded, consciously blinking as if he'd only just woken up.

"His feet hung off the couch the whole night," Kurt answered.

"Aww!"

"Brunch in about fifteen," Kurt told Sam. He, at least, seemed much cheerier and more energetic than he had last night. "Go shower!"

Body stiff and brain full, Sam moved to obey.

"The pink loofah is mine! Please don't use it!" Rachel called after him unnecessarily. "Kurt, my arm is cramping, help!"

 

*

 

Brunch was "a triumph," and even though Sam had witnessed culinary feats of wonder created by Kurt for no reason other than it was the weekend or Carole had a rough day or he'd just found this recipe on Pinterest, he still felt unworthy of everything Kurt served up.

He'd sliced fruit, melted chocolate chips in a bowl with a candle underneath it to keep it soft for dipping, created some kind of broccoli-cheese omelette, fried up ham and bacon, and of course, put together an extremely eclectic, orange-zesty granola for Sam. It was placed in front of him in a bowl with the perfect amount of yogurt with it. The whipped cream went on top of the coffee and pretty much anything else you wanted; Rachel kept dipping fruit into chocolate and then slathering that with whipped cream. It was probably better than most restaurants could offer. But Sam hadn't even considered that he was totally crashing something Kurt and Rachel wanted to do together.

Self-conscious, he sat where Kurt had put his place, and they all sat bathed in light pouring in through the windows as best it could. It had been chilly after Kurt had gone to bed and the city noise had taken over the apartment, the huge space filled with nothing but winter air, but now it was warm and cozy there in the kitchen. Sam could suddenly see how Rachel and Kurt lived here happily even though the neighborhood was so dodgy. They fit right into the whole vibe of the place, Kurt in his punchy orange and Rachel in her low-cut party dress from last night, sophisticated and artistic at the same time.

It didn't seem to be a secret that Rachel had stayed out the whole night with the guy who'd picked her up; she just laughed unabashedly when Kurt elbowed her about it here and there.

"You'll never get over Tommy in a bag, will you," she asked.

"Forget the bag, I've moved on to giving up butter for life."

"Nuh-uh. You can't. You have to use it when you cook!"

"Nothing you see here was made with butter."

"Come on!"

"Some things you just can't unsee," Kurt insisted, refilling Sam's half-drained coffee. Then he gave him a far too big dollop of whipped cream right on top. It slumped when Sam sipped at it carefully, and his nose sank right into the rich cream. The mess went over well, judging by the laughter that ensued, and Sam cracked a grin.

Trying not to inhale the cream, he pulled his cloth napkin up from his lap, but Kurt tisked impatiently and took it from him, and Sam once again allowed him to clean him up, stomach twisting and skin heating with what he guessed was probably embarrassment for some reason. He was a gigantic dork. Even though Kurt seemed to be happier and chattier when Rachel was around, Sam was heavily aware of the fact that she thought he was lost and confused and apparently needed to be cleaned up like a little kid. He smiled sheepishly when she told him to lick his lips, tasting cream in the crevices and stuck right above his upper lip.

"Is it off?" he asked, sniffling.

Kurt leaned forward to investigate. Sam leaned towards him, too, and twitched his nose like on _Bewitched_.

"You're good, Samantha Stevens," said Kurt, getting it in one without even knowing that he'd gotten it.

"Good," said Sam, and lifted his mug for another ship, letting his face smush right back into the pile of melting cream, trying for another laugh. (He got it.)

 

*

 

Brunch stretched lazily into the afternoon. Afterwards, Rachel swanned off to take a shower and Sam helped clean up. He always had after dinner at the Hummels', scraping plates or drying them or whatever Kurt wanted him to do, really. They duplicated the system here without question, Kurt with his hands plunged deep in soapy water and Sam with a dish towel, waiting at his side, crackly Motown on the record player keeping them company.

"It is so great not to hear the sink dripping constantly," Kurt told him.

"Want me to fix anything else?" asked Sam. "Help carry something heavy? Change a light bulb? C'mon, you let me crash on your couch."

"If you really wanted to, you could put some more cheese on the mouse trap. I would not mind that at all."

"Cheese doesn't work on a mouse trap," Sam said.

"What? Did Cartoon Network lie to me in my tender formative years? Don't mice love cheese?"

"They do, but the thing is, they're smart. It's really easy for them to learn how to steal cheese right off traps. Use peanut butter. They like it, but it's not as solid, so it's harder for them to snatch."

"Oh! Sage advice from an experienced mouse catcher," Kurt noted, handing him a wet bowl. "The Lima Bean's probably hiring. They need people with your skills. We don't have any peanut butter, though."

"We could go get some," said Sam.

"I'm sure it's not nuts out there at all," said Kurt. Sam detected a dash of sarcasm, but Kurt said, "Yeah, let's get out and do something, before my nose grows any more."

"It hasn't," Sam assured him, putting the bowl he'd just dried into the dish rack. "If it had, it'd be covered in whipped cream, trust me."

Kurt flashed him a scrunchy smile, but his eyes were bright.

"Let's ask Rachel if she wants to swing by the corner market and maybe... you used to be into astronomy, right? The American Museum of Natural History has this program called 'Journey to the Stars.' It looks kind of cool. And it's narrated by the one and only Whoopi Goldberg. Stars don't come any greater than that."

"I'm into museums, astronomy, and Whoopi Goldberg," Sam told him seriously.

"Great! We'll hop the 3:30 into the city and learn about the universe. See some dinosaur bones. Edify our curious minds."

"Awesome," Sam said, and smiled at his dish towel.

After they were finished, Sam wandered through the apartment a bit while Kurt called home to wish his family a happy New Year. He knew he should do that, too, but his phone had been in his backpack for the last day, probably filling up with texts from Brittany. She still wanted to be friends, so she frequently sent him _Fondue For Two_ ideas ("we could dip snickers bars like they do at the fair. don't tell anyone. this could be big"), the best and funniest Lord Tubbington/ _Intervention_ memes, and complaints about things Kiki told her ("Sorry. I can never locate Tanzania either").

Instead he peeked around Kurt's closet and into his bedroom, eyes curious about the jumble of furniture and exposed pipes as well as the lack of privacy. A thin, billowy white curtain and a bookcase with a lot of empty square spaces hardly even provided the illusion of boundaries. Sam was all too familiar of living life with a complete lack of privacy, and he knew one of the biggest hardships for him was finding alone time to, like... audition his hand puppet. Be his own best friend. Go fly fishing. Whatever. He had a hugely difficult time imagining what Kurt did with his bed fully visible from the living area – well, not imagining like _imagining_...

He was still puzzling over it when Kurt hung up and wandered over to see what Sam was standing around looking at.

"What do you and Rachel do when you need, like, privacy?" Sam asked him, since Rachel was still sealed away in the tiny bathroom. Man, girls took forever.

"Ear plugs," responded Kurt. "But neither of us have ever brought anyone home, if that's what you're talking about, so I've only had to wear them once."

"Well, I mean, what about... like, when you want... alone time. You know. To paint the ceiling."

Sam lifted both brows, and Kurt looked confused for a moment, or maybe disgusted; his brows furrowed the more Sam's lifted. It took him a second to puff out a response.

"Oh. Uh... I just... uh, wait till she's out."

That was utterly obvious, in retrospect, but Sam still said, "There's all these gaps in the bookcase. I can see right into your room."

"I thought it was probably nice to give Rachel the side with the wall," Kurt said. "She has a couple more things to cover up than me..." He discreetly crossed himself, or at least flicked his fingers over his chest in a similar motion. Sam got it. Kurt added, "Also, somehow less knick-knacks."

It was then that Rachel stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy pink bathrobe, hair wrapped up on top of her head in a matching towel. Kurt didn't seem to care that she was just in a robe, and neither did she. Somehow Sam felt marginally better about the time Rachel had witnessed him ripping off overalls and gyrating to LMFAO.

"Rachel! We're taking the 3:30 and doing the natural history museum. You in?"

"Oh, that sounds fun! Are you sure I won't be in the way?"

"Don't be silly," said Kurt impatiently.

"If anybody's in the way, it's me," said Sam, since it was so obvious.

"Now you don't be silly," said Rachel. "Three's company!"

"Go get ready, Rachel, go," urged Kurt. "Wear flats. Your ankles will thank me later."


	2. Chapter 2

An hour later, they were standing outside in the bitter cold, bundled but disappointed, staring at the empty American Natural History Museum.

"I can't believe it's closed," Kurt moaned. "Why is it closed on Tuesdays, and why is New Year's on a Tuesday! I'm sorry, Sam. I should've checked online to make sure it was open."

Kurt's face was so pouty that it was funny, even though Sam could see he was honestly put-out.

"It's okay," Sam assured him. "It's nice just to be out in the city. ...Without being crushed between drunk people or blinded by confetti," he added, for the sake of their ball-drop story.

"I really wanted to do 'Journey to the Stars' with you. Since you're here and everything."

"We can do something else!" Rachel said, spirited. "There's the ferry, or – ooh! Kurt, we still haven't gone to FAO Schwarz."

"Oh, right! We haven't." Kurt tossed a grin at Sam and explained, "It's on our New York bucket list to play a duet on that giant floor piano."

"Wait. Like... the one Tom Hanks jumped around on in _Big_?" Sam asked.

"Exactly. The _Big_ piano. They actually have it, and you can go stand on it and play it. It's free, too. Ideal for broke college students such as ourselves."

"Oh! Oh! Someone wants to go to FAO!" Rachel crowed, looking at Sam's face.

"It might be crowded," Kurt pointed out.

"Who cares! We can just see it and all the crazy piles of toys and maybe take the tour!"

"There's a tour?" asked Sam.

"It's New York. Everything has a tour," Kurt told him, taking out his phone. "I'm gonna Google."

"Does that sounds like fun, Sam?" Rachel persisted.

"Yeah." Sam grinned.

She grabbed them both by the arms.

"Then let's do it! C'mon!"

 

*

 

"Oh my gosh, it closes at five," said Kurt. "If this line actually moves, we might make it in."

Sam didn't know where he was seeing that information or why FAO Schwarz seemed more like a night club than a toy store – he was too busy being stunned by the size of the store stretching overhead, its cherry red sign and gigantic displays visible from the street. He felt dwarfed by every building in New York, but that was understandable. Being dwarfed by a toy store with a teddy bear that was only a little bit smaller than Sam's house sitting right over its front doors was crazy.

"It's not actually as crowded as I thought it might be," said Rachel. "I guess people are done with their Christmas shopping and now it's just New Year's tourists and looky-loos like us!"

"Look, there's a guy dressed like you, Kurt," Sam said, pointing out the man in a toy soldier uniform.

Kurt retaliated by letting Rachel's arm go and whapping Sam's.

"Where?" Rachel asked, bouncing. "I can't see over the line because someone told me not to wear heels."

"Here," offered Sam, and lifted her up against his side just like he'd pick up Stacy. Rachel wasn't a lot heavier, although she was wearing a heavy coat, and she placed her hands on his shoulders like she was completely used to people lifting her.

"Oh! You really do have a coat just like that," verified Rachel, then gasped. "Oh my God, there really are piles of toys. I was exaggerating when I talked about piles of toys. But there are literally mountains of teddy bears in there! Oh my goooosh! Gigantic pink puppy dogs! I want to just jump in and roll around in them!"

Sam let her down again as the line surged forward, and caught Kurt smiling at him. He grinned back. Maybe neither he or Kurt were in the best of moods, but Rachel's enthusiasm was contagious.

"I like your epaulettes," Kurt told the toy soldier doorman as they entered, receiving a hearty booming "Thank you!"

Once inside, Sam was again overwhelmed, this time stopping in his tracks to stare. The ceiling was covered with multi-colored lights, blue and purple and red and green set on black. He'd never seen a ceiling like that in his life. It was like Coach Sylvester's disco floor pixellated into oblivion. Underneath the blanket of LED lights, there were gigantic stuffed giraffes, monkeys, and zebras looming in a plastic jungle. As far as he could see was shelf after shelf after shelf of every stuffed animal you could name, and probably ones you couldn't, too. It looked like a plush, toy version of a natural history museum, and it stretched on what looked like forever in all directions, including upwards.

"How many freaking floors does this place have?"

They all stood, immobilized by the colors and enormity and, yeah, the literal piles of stuffed animals, and what seemed like an impossible hundred corners jammed full of toys. The couple who had been behind them in line brushed past them as they stood there just inside, wide-eyed.

"The _Big_ piano," said Sam with a jolt.

Trying not to run, they hurried to look for it – Sam felt like he was hustling through a movie, not even _Big_ but something like _Harry Potter_ or _Willy Wonka_ , a Muppet movie, or an unlikely cartoon – and boom. There it was, laid out in front of gigantic windows that looked out upon stores across the street, one of which boasted a sign: _The BIG Piano_. It was clearly a main attraction, but the space around it was mysteriously empty.

"There's no line," Rachel said, confused. Then she rephrased herself dramatically. "There's no! Line! _Go_!!"

They actually ran this time.

"Is it open?" Kurt asked the lone employee manning the red carpet, who also playing with a remote controlled helicopter that swooped above their heads.

"It's open. Please take off your shoes and form a line."

Kurt and Sam bent to untie their shoe laces and yank off their shoes. Sam's laces were already untied, which was kind of typical for him, so he had both his boots off before Kurt had one wingtip off.

"Oh, can we play a duet? Please?" Rachel asked the employee urgently, slipping out of her coat.

"I don't know," said the guy, eye trained on his helicopter. "Can you?"

Sam took Rachel's coat from her so it wouldn't just sit on the floor, then took her gloves, too, and put them into the coat's pocket. Kurt thrust his own peacoat at Sam, along with his gloves, scarf, and iPhone.

"Record us?" he asked.

"Yeah!"

Kurt left his shoes next to Sam on the carpet, grabbing Rachel's hand excitedly. Sam held his armful of winter wear and handled the phone carefully, making sure it was recording and that it captured his friends as they padded onto the gigantic keyboard, raising dissonant notes and laughing as the keys lit under their feet and their footsteps rang loud. Kurt hurried down to the other end, hitting notes lower and lower that followed him like a rainbow.

"Okay, piano lessons did not prepare me for this," he lamented, tapping experimentally with one socked foot. "Give me a couple of rounds before you jump in. This is actually weirdly disorienting and I don't know if my feet can keep up with my brain."

Rachel seemed to be figuring the thing out, too, wandering till she found the key she was looking for. "Okay! Go whenever you're ready!"

Attentively, Kurt see-sawed himself from foot to foot between keys, and Sam grinned. He was definitely sounding out the bottom part of "Heart and Soul," just like in the movie, figuring out what he was doing fast, and the way he began to spring from key to key made him look like he was tap-dancing, or maybe doing a jig.

Once he'd made it through one round, he seemed to gain confidence in what he was playing and the speed of it picked up, and Rachel briefly struck some kind of elegant position before she hopped onto her key, managing to make it look like a ballet as she danced remarkably easily from key to key, traveling up the scale and down again. It was flawless, like they'd done it a million times before. Even the employee turned, then landed his helicopter randomly in the middle of the floor to watch them.

It was classic Kurt and Rachel, Sam thought, to fly into something with little to no preparation and knock it out of the park. That was why they were national champs – and NYADA students. The concentration and musicality they were employing was obvious, and as the first round came to close, they exchanged quick glances and went straight into another one. Round two was even more refined, and then they ended with near-identical bounces upon their keys.

The 'copter guy clapped for them, and so did a bunch of other shoppers who were coming down from the level above. Proudly, Sam gave them a holler.

"Thank you!" Rachel beamed, and took Kurt's hand again for a bow.

"Does this count as a standing O?" Sam overheard Kurt joke.

"'Kay, wait... do you guys work here or something?" the employee asked, clearly confused.

"No, we're just disciples of the performing arts, blessed with perfect rhythm and applying years of music lessons," said Rachel.

"Most people think they just come in and be Tom Hanks right off the bat, but can't," 'Copter Guy commented.

"I learned to play 'Heart and Soul' with my dads at the age of three," Rachel informed him. "It's essentially grafted to my DNA."

"Sam, you should play something," Kurt urged, reaching for his phone and coat.

"No one in their right mind would follow that," Sam told him good-naturedly, handing them both over. "You got the whole store's attention."

"That's okay, you don't have to play a song – just go walk on it. It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance with no line. You definitely want to. I can see it in your eyes." Kurt peered at him. "Do you want me to go on it with you?"

Sam burst into a grin and unzipped his jacket.

"Rachel, take these," Kurt commanded, handing her the pile of coats and his phone and overwhelming her. Kurt's scarf fell to the floor, but he didn't seem to care; he grabbed Sam's hand just like he'd grabbed Rachel's and pulled Sam over onto the massive keyboard, sounding high notes. 

The keys didn't sink, but they were responsive. Under his feet, Sam's key was lit up red, and Kurt tugged him down the line-up of plastic ivories. Together, they sounded like Billy Joel was trying to do a drunken flourish on a toy piano, and then Kurt let him go.

"Wow, I feel like Michael Jackson in 'Billie Jean,'" said Sam, kicking one leg then managing to hop up onto his toes, even in socks. The E key under him lit up blue at the pressure. On his own, he traveled down to C and tapped out with his feet the first three notes of the scale. It sounded like "Do-Re-Mi" from _The Sound of Music_ , so Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot to complete it: _a female deer._

"Ooh," said Kurt, immediately crossing his leg over Sam's to hit the keys for _re, a drop of golden sun._

Sam hurried behind him, stepping on a note too high but quickly righting it. _Mi, a name I call myself._ Kurt scooted along with him. _Fa, a long long way to run._

"Wanna keep going?" asked Kurt, eyes twinkling. "I think we can do this."

In reply, Sam tapped out _so_ , stretching his leg almost uncomfortably and pressing out the tune to _a needle pulling thread_. Kurt's soft, socked foot overlapped his. _La_. Sam stretched again: _a note to follow_ – Kurt took ' _so_ ' and _ti_.

Sam heard Rachel singing along as he stretched. "Ti, a drink with jam and bread!"

"That will bring," sang Kurt, dancing along.

"Us," joined Sam, tapping the note.

Together, they all sang, accompanied very competently by Kurt, "Back... to... do!"

Sam hurried along the keys up the scale, adding, " _Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do_!" And he hopped. " _So, do_!"

"Yay!" cried Rachel.

"Oh, that was good!" laughed Kurt, and applauded softly for him, winding up with his hands clasped in delight. "Impressive ending, Sam. I didn't see it coming."

Seeing that he had a standing O, Sam bowed like a floppy marionette.

 

*

 

They got in another good few minutes on the _Big_ piano, the three of them together, before a couple with two little girls came up and their turn was officially declared over. The store was about to close, anyway. They hadn't gotten to see much more than the entryway and the piano, but Sam felt nothing but satisfaction as they slid back into their coats, preparing themselves to get back out into the cold night. Dark had fallen in the mere twenty minutes or so that they'd been in FAO Schwarz. They were strolling up 7th, Rachel holding onto them both as her escorts, when her phone rang and she stepped away for a moment.

"That was fun," Kurt offered happily, tugging at his crooked red glove.

"Yeah," agreed Sam. He didn't have gloves, but he did have pockets, and he curled his fingers within them.

"I admit, I've only seen _Big_ once, but it was enough to leave me with a permanent desire to dance around on a giant piano."

"Who doesn't want to do that??" Sam asked. He couldn't have been more serious, but Kurt laughed.

"Hang on, hang on," Rachel was telling her phone. She waved her hand at them. "You guys! Brody and I just had a brilliant idea!"

"Oh, God, what," Kurt said doubtfully.

"Callbacks!"

"...On a Tuesday?" 

"Yes! See, it's brilliant! No one will even be there!"

"It's New Year's, is it even open?" Kurt asked.

"Is it open?" Rachel asked, then smiled. "Brody says yes, it's open, and Pascal is there. Guys, this is the best possible thing we could do with the rest of our night, I swear! Tell him, Kurt!"

"I don't know," Kurt said, a frown marring his forehead. "I like Callbacks as much as any NYADA newb, but the last time we went, it didn't exactly leave me with the warmest of memories."

"All the more reason to go! Overwrite those old memories with new ones, with me and Brody and Sam! Kurt, come on, please. You know I've been wanting you to sing there for months! You always said, 'No, no, no, I'm not a student,' but you can't say that anymore!"

"Uh... how about you? Do you want to go?" Kurt asked Sam hesitantly.

"I don't know what you guys are talking about half the time," Sam admitted.

"It's a bar favored heavily by NYADA students that features karaoke," Kurt told him. "I've been there a couple of times, but it's always been on a Friday, which is, like, _the_ night to go. On a holiday Tuesday, it might just be us and young alcoholics."

"I've never done karaoke," said Sam.

"Me neither," said Kurt, giving him an arch-browed smile.

"Can I go even if I'm not a NYADA student?"

"Of course."

"If you wanna go," said Sam, "then we should go."

"We're in, we're in!" cheered Rachel.

"Okay, well, if I was on the fence, I just got shoved off it," said Kurt wryly.

"We're on 7th and we're walking, but we're on our way," Rachel told Brody. "Yeah... of course! – I can't wait to see you either. I have to tell you all about what Kurt and I and our friend just did. ...Okay. See you soon! 'Bye!"

She squealed after she hung up.

"This is the best New Year's Day ever!" she declared, slipping one arm into Sam's and the other into Kurt's.

 

*

 

Not unlike Kurt's apartment, Callbacks wasn't anything Sam would've dreamed up. When he'd pictured a karaoke bar, he'd pictured the stage at Lima Lanes, the bowling alley, with its green glittery tinsel curtain pinned to the wall behind it, and the tired, fat guy behind the shoe counter.

Callbacks wasn't that. There wasn't a karaoke machine in sight. Its ceiling was almost as lit up as FAO Schwarz's, with Christmas lights strung over almost every inch of it. There was a real bar and real alcohol and stacks of glasses behind it, and lots of extremely tiny round tables with candles glowing in mottled glass holders. Some of the walls had striped wallpaper and decorations like gilded mirrors and paintings of manor houses, as if at one point this place had been more of a gentleman's bar. But New York sure loved its exposed brick, so there was a lot of that, too. Even with the abundance of lights, it was dark and moody. The small stage in one corner boasted a baby grand piano covered in, like, a rug or something. A lamp sat on it, and there was an abandoned drink resting on it too.

The guy who had picked Rachel up last night was leaning against the bar chatting to a girl behind it, but grinned when he saw who was coming in.

"Rachel," he said, smirking. "You look cute in that beret. It's very Ohio."

He tweaked the top of it, and then leaned down to give her a kiss, and for a moment there, Kurt and Sam were witness to some shameless PDA and exchanged bemused glances.

When they parted, Rachel smiled up at Brody, her hand on his chest, then said, "Of course, you know Kurt, but this is our friend Sam from back home. Sam, this is Brody!"

Brody nodded at Kurt with a glint of a grin, then stretched a hand out to Sam.

"So you're the guy on the couch."

"Hey," said Sam, giving him a brief shake with a hand that was more on the cold, damp side.

"Come on in and warm up," said Brody, like the place was his. "As you can see, it's just us and Pascal. Probably not for too long, but for now, we can sing whatever we want without fear of NYADA blogs skewering us."

Rachel put her hands together happily and did the smallest, fastest clapping Sam had ever seen. "Yay! This is so great. By the way, Brody, before this evening's out, Kurt's going to get up on that stage."

"Good man!" said Brody, ignoring the fact that Kurt was shaking his head modestly. "It's time for you to follow up on 'Being Alive' with some, I dunno... Justin Bieber. That's about your vocal range, am I right?"

"Ask this guy, here," said Kurt, elbowing Sam.

"Oh my gosh, yes," Rachel agreed.

"Oh, yeah? You sing?" Brody asked Sam. The question was completely casual – friendly, even – and so was Brody's posture, but something about it also gave Sam a weird vibe, like Brody was challenging him on some subtle wavelength Kurt and Rachel didn't seem to realize was there.

"I used to have a one-man Justin Bieber cover band," said Sam, sticking his hands back in his pockets. He really didn't have any interest in challenging Brody's dominance, but he wasn't going to put his tail between his legs about The Justin Bieber Experience, either.

"Oh, it was so good," Rachel attested. "He had the hair and the hoodie and screaming girls and everything."

"Wow. That's really interesting, uh – I've forgotten your name already, shoot."

"Sam," Kurt said.

"Sam, Sam. Got it."

"Let's grab a table and get some drinks," Rachel suggested, taking Brody by the elbow much as she'd taken Kurt and Sam's, insinuating herself onto his arm. "I can't wait to sing!"

To Sam's surprise, he felt Kurt grasp at him, sliding his hand into the crook of Sam's elbow like an unconscious mirror of Rachel. He was so startled that he wasn't aware of how naturally he responded to it until he was already tucking a bare, cold-chapped hand over Kurt's red-gloved fingers, securing Kurt to him as they stepped further into the little club. He followed along on legs that felt numb as Brody and Rachel chose a table right by the piano. He was colder than he thought, but weirdly hot, too.

The three of them in jackets and scarves paused to shed them and put them on the backs of chairs. Sam pulled Kurt's chair out for him without even thinking about it, like his chivalry reflex had gotten hammered, and he knew he didn't have to and even that it might've been rude or something, but Sam wasn't about to have Brody swoop in and do it.

"I know what you like, Rachel," said Brody, touching Rachel's shoulder, then he pointed to Kurt and Sam. "How about you two? Cokes?"

"Yeah, great. Sam just drinks water – right?" Kurt asked Sam as they sat. Sam nodded.

"All right. Big partier." Brody headed off to the bar.

Sam waited until he was out of earshot, then leaned both elbows onto the table and got down to business, looking right at Rachel.

"So is this guy your boyfriend?"

"Well," Rachel said, grinning. "I don't know if it's that serious yet, but this is two dates in two nights, and last night was amaaazing. I really like him and I think he likes me, but he's a little bit older, so I don't know if he's looking for a freshman for a girlfriend."

"So we're on a date with you, now?" Kurt asked. "Well, this just got awkward."

"How old is he?" Sam asked Rachel, undeterred.

"He's a junior," she chirped.

"He old enough to drink?"

"Okay, calm down," Kurt interjected in a coaxing voice, hand returning to Sam's elbow as if to hold him back. "Rachel already has two dads, she doesn't need another. What you really have to worry about is letting that guy loose on a turkey."

"Let it go, Kurt," said Brody, appearing at their table with two glasses of water in one hand and a yellow-ish looking drink for Rachel, garnished with a cherry and a lime. "That turkey was juicy and succulent, and it was made in a bag."

Sam eyed Kurt's fingers on the blue and tan plaid of his sleeve nervously as Brody set each of their glasses down, then sat himself down in the chair next to Rachel, his arm coming around her shoulders naturally. The table was so small that they all barely fit around it, so it was no wonder he and Kurt were overlapping at the arms.

"So glad you decided to come," Brody told them, but he was obviously talking to Rachel. "I really wanted to see you without having to hop the J train, and I really wanted a chance to sing with you again without any ex-boyfriends glaring daggers at me the whole time."

Fresh from a sip of her drink, which Sam suspected had alcohol in it, Rachel declared, "I'm going to sing 'Girl On Fire.'"

"Oh." Brody clutched his chest, like Rachel had just said something extremely true. "That's perfect for your voice!"

Rachel giggled at him, standing. "Do you want to be my Nicki Minaj?"

"I would love to, but if there's one thing I can't do, it's rap. But I do want a duet, so you better think of something good!" He watched her hop up on the stage, where a guy was just sitting down and taking a sip from the drink he'd left there. Brody swerved. "So are we on a double date right now, or what? Are you guys a thing?"

It was amiable enough, careless enough, but Sam still kind of wanted to shove the guy out of nowhere.

"No. No, we're friends." Kurt's fingers curled, sliding off Sam's arm, and he reached casually for his drink. Sam's face felt extremely red. His skin always got really red out in the cold. Actually, he was practically pouring heat into the air from the collar of his shirt. Kurt continued, poking the ice in his Coke with his straw, "Ex-roommates, in a way. We used to live together for a while."

"Oh. Cool. I thought you two seemed, y'know. Close."

"You know, I think I want a couple cherries in this," Kurt said pleasantly, and grabbed his Coke to take to the bar.

Brody and Sam were left in silence for a second, until the piano player began Rachel's song.

"So you're... straight," Brody said over the intro. 

"Mm," Sam acknowledged.

"What exactly are you sleeping at Rachel's for? She told me you just turned up. No call. No text. I'm kinda wondering what you want from her."

"Rachel's a friend, but I came to see Kurt," Sam said shortly.

Brody cocked a brow, like something about that didn't compute, then said, "Okay," and seemed to let it go – just in time to hear Rachel belt.

" _She's just a girl and she's on fi-i-ire._ "

The bar might have been almost empty, but Rachel's voice filled every dark corner, and Sam had forgotten exactly what that was like: the passion, the innocence, the unrestrained warmth and enormity of Rachel's talent. Solo after solo, the glee club had all kind of come to take it for granted, just this weapon they were all certain of and staking their competition on. It was no wonder everyone had wanted to be the new Rachel after she'd left, and it was also more obvious than ever that no one could be Rachel, not even Marley or Blaine. He didn't exactly get Rachel's values or methods, but Sam definitely got that Rachel was entirely herself when she sang, and it made him happy. Sam smiled; Brody smiled; Kurt slid back into his seat with a smile, several cherries visible in his glass of Coke.

In the middle of her performance, the bar's door opened, but whoever came in mid-laugh shut up immediately and quietly parked themselves somewhere near the back. Kurt muttered something Sam missed.

"What'd you say?" he asked, bending closer to hear him over the piano and Rachel's voice.

Kurt leaned, too, till their shoulders were totally trying to squeeze into the same space.

"Nothing important," he said reluctantly. "I was just hoping the people that came in aren't NYADA seniors or something. I'm not warmed up."

Sam had to laugh, but he did so gently. "Dude, you sang your way into NYADA, fair and square, in front of a bunch of NYADA people, including that Carmen lady, with no time to prep. Those people aren't anything to worry about."

Kurt was eying them resentfully. Sam considered listing all the things that were good about Kurt for a second, then decided to just try and take Kurt's mind off performing. He lifted a hand to Kurt's ear so no one would see his mouth moving and his hushed voice wouldn't make it across the table.

"Hey, so... was that bag that Brody cooked turkey in a douche bag?"

Huffing, Kurt elbowed him, ducking his grin at the table, and Sam leaned back in satisfaction, shrugging.

"Just wondering."

They both clapped as Rachel's song drew to a close on an admittedly beautiful note. The people in back applauded, too, and Brody stood, outdoing everyone else's applause. So far that night, Sam hadn't found any reason to really like the guy, but at least he seemed to be legitimately impressed by Rachel's singing.

"Encore!" Brody called.

"Come up here, sexy," called Rachel on-mic, and Sam bit down on a laugh to keep it from exploding inappropriately out of him.

Brody was heading to the stage all too happily, but to be on the safe side, Kurt held up his hand to Sam's ear and murmured, "If you think that's bad, you should've been here on Thanksgiving."

"Do you think he spiked her drink?" Sam asked, hiding the question behind Kurt's hand while it was up.

"I doubt it. That's just how she is with him," replied Kurt.

" _One can have a dream, baby,_ " sang Rachel.

" _Two can make that dream so real_ ," Brody sang back. He had an edgy voice, reedier than Finn's but also stronger and more well-trained, even if Sam thought Finn's was just better in the ears. Sam eyed the two of them up on the stage as they traded off lines. He thought randomly of Rachel's house party a couple of years back, when she'd drunkenly duetted with Blaine. Her enthusiasm level was almost identical; he kind of expected her to start bouncing up and down at any second in her flats. She was pulling at his shirt flirtatiously.

" _It takes two-o-o, bay-ba-a-ay_ ," they sang, like they were alone in their own little world up on the stage. " _Me and you. It just takes two._ "

"Now I can never hear this song again," Kurt said.

 

*

 

Rachel and Brody sang another four songs, at least, but Sam had no complaint; it was much more pleasant to have Brody up on stage, occupied, than it was to sit with him and Rachel, soaking in their hormones, and with them up there, he didn't have to sit around not really being able to participate in a conversation about NYADA or Broadway. Plus, Kurt offered him a cherry that he'd stabbed on the end of his straw. Almost half his drink was just cherries, it seemed ("I kept asking for one more, one more, one more, and then the guy just put a bunch in and said, 'Happy New Year, kid,'" Kurt said), so he kept letting Sam have Coke-soaked maraschino cherries like they were splitting a dessert.

"You should get up there and sing something, Kurt," Sam told him, as Rachel and Brody sang "Islands in the Stream" like they were starring in some variety show. "I don't think those people back there are NYADA students or they might've, like, mutinied for the mic by now, or whatever."

"I am less nervous after all these cherries."

"Cool," said Sam. "Like _Mario 2_."

" _Mario 2_?" repeated Kurt, shaking his head. "You boys and your plumbing-related games. Is that where you learned your way around a pipe?"

"See, you're pretending you don't know about _Mario_ games, but you totally do," Sam said.

"Okay, but you're a little too old-school for me. I know mushrooms and flowers and coins. What do cherries do?"

Kurt offered one on the end of his straw. Sam plucked it off.

"Get enough cherries and you get an invincibility star," he said, and nibbled on it.

Kurt actually rolled his eyes, slumping back in his seat.

"I can't believe you're using warped, senseless video game logic to try and convince me to humiliate myself. And I can't believe it's working."

Sam had a whole ten seconds to feel smug about that before Kurt straightened and put his cheek randomly on Sam's shoulder, a sudden warm weight. His voice went a little lower.

"I'm actually just nervous if I start singing, I'll think about... Blaine and... everything, and... just burst into tears."

Blinking, Sam eased his arm around Kurt's back, patting just between his shoulder blades. He hadn't even thought that Kurt might still be as broken up about Blaine as Blaine was about him, since he seemed to be doing okay and hadn't even mentioned him. He probably felt even more broken up than Blaine, actually, since he'd been cheated on. Sam knew how bad that felt, and you couldn't do anything about what another person chose to do, so it was an extra helpless, hopeless hurt. He tried to say something encouraging.

"Sing something fun. Something that doesn't remind you of him."

He didn't get a response, so he glanced down carefully, catching Kurt staring off into space.

"How about this – I'll go up there and sing with you," proposed Sam. "I'll sing back-up. You got me out on the _Big_ piano when I was _this close_ –" he rocked a little, almost cuddling Kurt, " – to backing out. You knew I wanted to do it. I know you want to get up there, so I'll come with you, and if you want, you can kick me off again and take the spotlight."

Kurt's brows were raised with interest. His eyes were round and trusting. Sam's cheeks stung out of nowhere and he patted Kurt again, taking his arm back.

"Do we know any of the same songs?" Kurt asked doubtfully.

"Uh... well, I don't know any Broadway."

"Okay, see, now you're pretending you don't know musicals, but you played a song from _The Sound of Music_ , a personal favorite of mine, on a gigantic piano."

"Everybody knows that song. I mean, it's a famous movie. But I probably don't know anything else Broadway you do."

"Tell me what you do know, and don't say anything from glee."

Sam racked his brains. On the spot, he couldn't come up with anything Kurt might know except Justin Bieber, but even that was just because Brody had mentioned him. He mentally groped around the vicinity of Justin Bieber in his brain. Selena Gomez? Nah, he only knew that one song, and that was just because Santana had done it at prom. Who else did Justin Bieber make him think of?

"...Taylor Swift?" he offered, fully prepared for Kurt to reject the suggestion.

"I do love her wardrobe," said Kurt, blinking up at Sam from his shoulder. Sam bit at the cold cherry between his fingertips, nerves shooting through him. It was probably just about singing on a New York stage, even though he'd done his fair share of bat mitzvahs, let alone show choir competitions, and Callbacks had an even smaller stage than the Lima Lanes.

"Okay, but what about her songs?" he asked. "Do you know any?"

"I'm kind of familiar with a couple of the ones she just came out with," hedged Kurt.

"So pick one!" Sam said. "We'll Google the lyrics and whatever you don't know, I'll fill in."

After a few thoughtful seconds, Kurt pulled out his phone.

"Yes," Sam exclaimed, pumping a fist. "Let's do this!"

The second Brody and Rachel were done, he stood up, clapping. Rachel bowed her head gracefully, looking touched at the enthusiasm, but Sam wasn't really giving her a standing ovation. He tugged at Kurt's arm, then cupped his hand around his mouth and called to them.

"We're next!"

"Oh! Okay. Are you guys doing a duet?" Rachel asked, but Sam just took the mic from her hand and headed to the piano player to ask if he could play the song Kurt had chosen. Sam had kind of supposed he had some endless supply of sheet music to choose from up there, or he was one of those musical prodigies that could play every song they'd ever heard once, but the guy just Googled on his own phone, then nodded, leaning the phone there to use it like sheet music.

Sam didn't need Google. He liked this song. He just liked Taylor Swift, though. Brittany had given her new album to him for Christmas, but he'd opened it on their wedding night. All the time he hadn't spent licking Brittany in weird places, playing board games, or watching _Avatar_ one last time, he'd spent listening to music. It was hard to think that Pitbull and Meat Loaf were probably not going to make it, but he had a feeling Taylor Swift was going to be okay and probably go on to write hit songs about the devastation wrought upon the world. Of course, now he felt dumb that he'd convinced himself that stuff might happen – but he still liked the song, even on piano instead of guitar.

At his mic, Kurt was gazing out at the bar like it was strange for him to see it from another perspective. There were more people at tables than Sam remembered coming in, and of course, Rachel and Brody cuddled up at their table.

Projecting encouraging vibes, Sam tossed his arm around Kurt's shoulder and went for broke, ignoring the small audience and pretending he was just on stage at McKinley.

" _Lovin' him is like drivin' a new Maserati down a dead-end street. Faster than the wind, passionate as sin, ending so suddenly._ "

He waited for Kurt to lift the mic and join him, but Kurt wasn't even looking at the lyrics he'd pulled up on his phone. He was just staring out at the small crowd, pale. Sam pushed through the first verse himself, hoping Kurt would join him at the chorus, but Kurt seemed frozen. There was a piano-filled gap where someone should've been singing the first line of it, but no one did.

" _Missing him was dark gray, all alo-one_ ," Sam piped, unfazed because glee had taught him to keep on singing and dancing through any mistakes but still super aware that Kurt wasn't joining him. He let go of Kurt just in case that was the problem. " _But lovin' him was red. Re-eh-eh-ehd. Lovin' him was red. Ooh, red._ "

He caught a glimpse of Rachel waving her hand, mouthing something wildly at Kurt, and in that moment, Sam forgot the words to the next part all at once. They were just gone in an instant. Standing there, he felt a stab of something like embarrassment as he tried to remember what came next. He wasn't a NYADA student, but he wasn't just some random guy who'd come off the street to get out of the cold or someone drunk and overestimating their own abilities. He'd done whole numbers in glee club without screwing up the words. But it didn't seem to matter, because Kurt clicked into motion and lifted his mic, saving him.

" _Touching him was like realizing all you ever wanted was right there in front of you._ " His voice was husky, lower than Sam was used to hearing him sing, and Sam realized he wasn't singing higher or with his fullest power because he would blow the roof off the joint if he did. " _Memorizing him was as easy as knowing all the words to your old favorite song..._ "

Noodly with relief, Sam grinned, clapped, and stomped, adding some rhythm to the bare piano chords, and Kurt huffed at his ridiculousness, the little laugh hardly marring the words. This time at the chorus, Sam laid on the harmony.

" _Losing him was blue like I'd never known..._ "

Rachel was clapping in the rhythm Sam had started, and Sam looked at Kurt to find him smiling, following along with the lyrics gamely on the screen of his phone.

" _But loving him was red_ ," Kurt sang, and Sam echoed, " _Re-eh-eh-ed._ "

Overall, the performance had nowhere near the professional quality Rachel and Brody's did, and it wasn't even as good as Rachel and Kurt dancing on the _Big_ piano had been, but by the last line of the song, Sam was already clapping for Kurt, and Rachel leapt up in a show of loyalty and support. There was a smattering of polite applause from the rest of the patrons.

"So sorry about that," added Kurt to the room at large. "If anything is red, it's my face."

"We love you, Kurt!" Rachel yelled.

Sam replaced his mic and hopped off the stage, joining Rachel as she clapped. Kurt did look flush-faced, but gratified, and when Brody stood, too, nodding in approval, he eased into a small bow at the waist.

"Sing 'Music of the Night'!" Rachel cried.

"Yeah, encore!" echoed Sam.


	3. Chapter 3

"Promise I didn't embarrass you?" Sam pressed. He and Kurt were huddled under his bright blue jacket, which was slightly more waterproof than Kurt's coat, making their way through freezing rain that was only two degrees away from turning into snow. It wasn't helping with the cold or, really, the wetness, but it was keeping the icy rain from hitting their necks.

"No, of course not," Kurt scoffed. "I embarrassed myself!"

"You didn't! All those songs were so good. I saw the piano player clap after 'Can't Take My Eyes Off You.' First off, awesome choice. I love that song and it was totally fun. And it was really cool that you got everybody in the place to sing along, too. I bet no other NYADA student has done that."

"Do you remember when we had Heath Ledger Night?" Kurt asked, looking up at him with a curious glint in his eyes.

"Duh, I remember!"

This seemed to content Kurt. "Well, don't worry about the Swifty song. That was all on me. I should've remembered that all of her songs are about ex-boyfriends. I just, uh, blanked there for a minute. But I think it turned out okay by the end! And you sounded great. You certainly didn't do anything to embarrass me."

"Not even when Brody said he runs into Brian Williams all the time and I totally flipped out 'cause I thought he meant Brian Wilson?"

"Who doesn't love the Beach Boys?" Kurt returned, and shuddered. "Okay, that's a warm thought: the Beach Boys. 'Fun, Fun, Fun.' 'Kokomo.'"

Sam's breath puffed out visibly in front of them as he drew Kurt in closer under his arm, trying to hold his jacket up over their heads with his other arm.

"I... kinda meant the football player."

Kurt erupted into shaky, shivery laughter, and Sam knew it was partially because they were both freezing and tired, and also that Kurt was laughing at him rather than with him, but he still liked the effect. A clap of thunder rumbled somewhere, and of course, Sam heard the ever-present sirens.

"Ugh, I wish I'd worn any other shoes," Kurt said thickly. "How are you? You holding up without your jacket?"

"How far now?" asked Sam, instead of admitting he was probably turning blue and that his bare hands and ears and nose stung.

"Almost there. Promise I'll make you a nice, hot cup of coffee when we get in, Sam."

"Awesome," breathed Sam. He didn't exactly like coffee yet, but anything hot sounded amazing.

"And I'll put whipped cream on it."

"Why don't you just, like, dab it directly on my nose?"

"Kinky!" said Kurt, startling a laugh out of Sam. He got tugged to the left by the waist. "Here we go. This is our street."

Once they were in the building, Sam's jacket off their heads and sluicing rainwater onto the hallway floor, it seemed to take Kurt's gloved hands a few too many seconds to unlock the door to the apartment, but when he did, Sam actually felt like they were home. Only a light back in Kurt's room was on, but it cut through the bookshelf and landed in squares upon the wide wooden floor. His blankets were still on the couch, the mouse trap still in the corner.

"We forgot to get peanut butter!" he told Kurt, who promptly took Sam's dripping jacket and shook it out like a rug in the hallway.

"That's okay. We'll do it tomorrow, when we don't look like _Titanic_ extras. Turn on the light, will you?"

Sam found a switch and the kitchen lit up, and he turned to Kurt to find his hair slumped, wet with rain, and his face a pained pink. His chin trembled as he shut and latched the door behind them.

"We need to hang these up to dry," he managed, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his peacoat.

Sam could see that Kurt's white pants were soaked through to the knees, his socks and shoes no doubt waterlogged, and Sam wasn't exactly dry, either. His chilled clothes were becoming one with his body.

They moved, trudging, to Kurt's free-standing closet, peeling off layers – in Kurt's case, his coat, gloves, and scarf before he even reached his clothes. Sam was shirtless, and strangely warmer for it, as quick as he could get that way, his plaid shirt and t-shirt both on the floor. He was tugging off his boots with some effort when he noticed Kurt huffing and shaking, goosebumps raging up his pale pink arm, as he tried to slide his orange shirt onto a hanger. Kurt's white belt was undone and his fly tugged open, white briefs immaculate under his jeans. His thin ribbed wifebeater had made it through the downpour unscathed. Sam peeled his damp socks off slowly, not entirely sure if locker room protocol was in effect and trying not to stare. He'd just never seen Kurt so openly undone, and he'd lived with the guy.

He unbuckled his own belt, still struggling to breathe like he was taking in frigid air, voice clutching in his chest.

"Uh, can I take these off?"

"Yeah – uh, yeah! Yes, of course. Go for it. Take 'em off. Hang 'em up."

Sam popped the button on his jeans free, then stopped short with his zip half down, biting the inside of his lips guiltily. Why was he getting hard. Why, why, why. There wasn't any reason for it, especially since he was so cold, but the fact that the air around him felt warm in comparison to his skin seemed to just encourage the boner. And what could he do? Maybe if he waited a minute it would go away...

He must have frozen entirely for some time, because Kurt was simultaneously pulling a gray NYADA t-shirt down over his wifebeater and standing there with shiversomely bare legs, in nothing else but briefs, and snapping his fingers in Sam's face.

"Hey. Hey. Sam? Hello." His hand graced Sam's shoulder. "Taylor Swift just walked by."

Sam felt his face bending in confusion.

"Ah, I thought that might get your attention," Kurt said breathlessly. "Are you having trouble getting these off? Mine were a bitch."

Warm knuckles grazed Sam's stomach, and he jumped, or something, a million miles in his own skin, and the utter jolt of his entire body made Kurt let go of Sam's jeans like they'd burst into flame.

"Sorry!" Kurt gasped, all wide alarmed eyes and damp dark hair in a curl over his forehead, like Superman with highlights. Looking at him, Sam's stomach hurt so deep and he felt so dizzy he thought he might fall down – but instead he sort of fell forward, still trying hard to take in air, clumsily surging on his numb legs. Kurt warily fell back several quick steps, but Sam hung close to him like a magnet, hands finding his waist, and they were kissing before Sam could stop himself, Kurt's sharp exhale huffing hot across his cheek.

Only a heartbeat later, Kurt skittered back even more, breaking them apart just enough to breathe, injured, "Sam..."

Adrenaline razed through Sam, lighting everywhere he had nerves, the echo of Kurt's voice hurting in his bones, it was so good.

He could feel Kurt's mouth hovering just under his, an inch away, feel his stilted, shocked breaths and how he was hanging there uncertainly, not moving away anymore but not closing the gap between them either. Everything was there for Sam.

Sam didn't even think – he couldn't think – he nipped at Kurt's mouth, wrecked with a wave of joy that had his dick leaping against the constrictive denim of his jeans as Kurt tilted his face up and crushed his mouth to Sam's. He could smell the rain on Kurt's skin and the moisturizer he knew Kurt used, and shock rippled up his spine as Kurt wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, fingertips scrunching up through the back of his wet hair. Then Sam couldn't breathe again, and he didn't want to. They swayed dizzily as the balance between them pendulumed, so fast it was kind of scary – Sam arched, Kurt grasped and leaned, Sam clutched to keep Kurt's mouth against his. Sam had never kissed anybody like this; nobody had ever grabbed at him so desperately.

Together they stumbled under the weight of their own daring, clumsily tripping right over the edge of Kurt's bed. Sam had barely been aware they'd actually been moving across the floor and found they'd fallen crooked over a gray striped comforter. He stared through his lashes at Kurt's face so close to his.

There was a split second where he couldn't believe he was doing this – it seemed like a bad idea – but somehow that spark of dread shot through him and made him feel like New Year's fireworks inside, just a thousand little exploding synapses.

Sam's arms locked Kurt to him with all their strength. He pulled Kurt right on top of him and knew Kurt could feel how he was nonsensically burning hot and hard in his chilled jeans as well as he could feel Kurt's back bending away from him cautiously. His legs were the most naked things Sam had ever seen, somehow, and he'd worked at a strip club and had post-marital sex with Brittany S. Pierce, like, a bunch of times. They were just so white and vulnerable, thighs long, lean, tough muscles, knees pink, calves hairy the same way Sam's were. It seemed almost lewd, since Sam's were completely clothed. He wanted to touch them but it felt like he had to hang on to Kurt, who had hands braced against the mattress.

"Sam," Kurt whispered, staring down at him covetously, pained – like he couldn't really have him.

"Kiss me again," Sam whispered back, embarrassed. Kurt leaned in and Sam strained up to meet him, but their lips only barely brushed, because Kurt was holding back on him, still unsure. "Kiss me, Kurt?" Sam tried, so excited that he was warming through his cold clothes and now his hands were tingling because his blood was rushing hard. He arched his neck pleadingly, not knowing what he was going to do if Kurt didn't want this. His chest was beginning to hurt with distress. "Kurt – God – kiss me –"

Finally, Kurt did, pinning him right to the mattress with the press of his mouth and rocking on Sam helplessly, giving into him and to everything.

Sam couldn't stop it, then, or control any of it. He roiled under Kurt, clumsy and hair-triggered, fingers raking blindly across the planes of his back, and when Kurt's tongue plunged into his mouth, he locked up from knee to collarbone and came.

He came till his pants were soaked at the waist, too, time jerking by in pulses of muscle and the beat of his own alarmed _ah_ s that were muffled in their kiss. Kurt's pink, wet mouth curled when he let Sam's go.

"I'm gonna get a wash cloth," he whispered, though Sam's brain was too stunned to process it until he was already climbing off the bed, t-shirt crooked.

"Fuck," Sam uttered at the high ceiling, his whisper totally lost in the gigantic space. He felt raw. Orgasm still throbbed in his veins and he was still twitching in his jeans, and Kurt had left him there on the bed. His brain only seemed to be taking in a smattering of the room: he could see the curtain billow as Kurt passed it, the squares of the bookcase showing the dark living room on the other side of it, a dress form that made no sense to him as he twisted his head and tried to get some kind of bearing. There were sirens going off but he was pretty sure they were in his own head, not outside. He sat up, but slumped back again after only a second, face hot with shame. He wanted Kurt there with him so bad...

He'd fallen still, simply breathing with his eyes closed and inching his way tentatively back into himself, when Kurt returned half a minute later with the promised wash cloth.

"Take your pants off, Sam," he suggested, and it wasn't supposed to be sexy, probably, but it was still sexy. Sam grappled clumsily. The damp jeans clung at his legs, but he managed to shed them and kick them over the side of the mattress. Kurt kneed up onto it with him, grazed a fingertip down the thin line of hair from his navel to the waistband of his boxers, and said, "Now these."

Unashamed, Sam wriggled his wet boxers down, cock pink and wet on his own belly, lukewarm come sticking to it and hanging thick between his shaft and his stomach.

He saw Kurt's smile ease away and his lips part and his eyes focus on Sam's dick for a long few seconds, then his gaze roamed along Sam's body like he couldn't quite process what was in front of him, and Sam's pulse jumped. It was okay to look. Sam looked over at the demure bend of Kurt's legs, the way he perched lightly on his own calves, and the way his t-shirt hid most of what he was packing in his briefs. Sam's mind spun uncertainly. Did Kurt not want him to see more? And did he want to see more?

"Here you go," Kurt said simply, lips quirking, and mopped at Sam's sticky hipbone.

"Thanks," Sam squeaked, sighing first at how weird and messed up and shaky he felt, then at the heat of the wash cloth on his junk. Kurt's hand was gentle, and only handling him through the cloth, but Sam's knees quivered sensitively.

"Mm-hmm," responded Kurt, smiling at Sam before he tossed the cloth at the floor – probably adding it to the pile of Sam's wet, ruined clothes.

Cool air moved in over Sam's freshly cleaned skin and he blew a breath out over his lips, trying to think of something to say, but he couldn't. His brain just wouldn't budge, even though he was trying to make it. He was just so naked now, not just lying there on display, but... naked like Kurt could really see him, everything about him, and there was no hiding anything.

As Sam wheezed softly, Kurt said, "I doubt Rachel is coming back tonight."

Words finally made it out of Sam's mouth in an awkward barrage. "Pretty sure Brody is gonna try and screw her brains out."

Kurt's brow arched, but instead of wrinkling his nose, he said, "Means we've got the place to ourselves."

After a second, Sam worked through that, and let out a surprised huff.

"If you wanna do this..." Kurt added. His fingers tangled up in each other in a way that made him look like a confused von Trapp fresh out of the river, especially with his hair in a damp fall over his forehead and his prim posture. He tilted his head, smile taking on that forced perk. "We don't have to. We can just sleep! Just because we... did – that just now – it doesn't mean I, you know..."

Before Kurt could get any further, Sam sat up, grasping Kurt's forearms and pulling him till they both fell over, twisting onto their sides, Sam butt naked and Kurt relatively modest in his t-shirt and underwear. Their knees created an awkward, warm, bony jumble.

"I want to," Sam breathed, sounding pretty together for someone who was probably losing it, coming apart at the seams with it all. He was so sure, though, as sure as he'd been when he'd bought his New York ticket. "Do you?"

"What are we talking about, here?" Kurt asked, guarded, but Sam could see the quick rise and fall of his chest.

It took Sam a few seconds to land on it. "Sex?"

Kurt smiled again, and Sam could tell he couldn't help it; his teeth tried to cut it down, and his eyelids momentarily dropped, lashes so delicate.

"Oh... do you wanna fuck me, Sam?"

The words – and more than that, Kurt's voice saying them, filthy and sweet and coquettish – punched him right in the gut. His breath heaved out of him in a pressured exhale that contained more air than he even knew he had in his lungs.

It was too much to immediately fathom, and he mentally tripped over trying to figure out the mechanics of it. He wasn't a moron; he knew how it worked for guys, but he'd never thought in any actually real, formed, consequential way about that being him on either side of it and it wasn't exactly as straightforward, so he wasn't sure how to answer.

"You've done that, right?" Kurt asked. "With a girl."

Sam nodded, but just barely, still a little confused. Were they thinking about the same thing?

"Then you could do it to me," Kurt told him, gaze keen. He ducked and gave Sam's open mouth a tease of a kiss on his lower lip, whispering at him while their lips were still close. "I think you want to. Don't you." His mouth tipped up to nip at Sam's upper lip, catching the bow of it briefly. "You'd like it. Fucking me here in New York like this. After all this time..." When Sam groaned, Kurt warmed the corner of his mouth with a soft touch of his lips. "Tell me what you want, Sam."

Maybe it was just that Kurt saying his name was hypnotizing, powerful, making him ache and hunger for it like it was everything the most fragile part of his soul craved, but Sam obeyed.

"I wanna do that. I – I wanna fuck you."

Kurt panted, sighed. "Is that what you want, Sam? You wanna fuck me?"

Sam's eyes shut as Kurt's mouth nipped at the final unkissed corner of his. Jerkily, he breathed, "Yeah – Kurt... help me – "

"Do you have any condoms?"

"Um –" Sam had to stop and consider. His backpack, he hadn't really packed very carefully; he hadn't planned to have sex with Kurt, or anybody, while he was in New York. The bottom layer under the few t-shirts and stuff he'd brought was stuff left over from his three straight nights at Brittany's. He was actually pretty sure there were a few condoms left from the one box he'd ever actually purchased, but were they in there? "I think."

Kurt's lashes dipped and lifted as he examined Sam's face. "Why don't you go find out."

Sam rolled to his elbows, scooted, and slid off Kurt's bed, the cold air swirling everywhere around him and nipping at his skin; it didn't matter one bit to his dick, which was bobbing and hardening even as he just walked naked right through Kurt and Rachel's apartment to where his backpack slouched by the coffee table. He picked it up and mouthed a fuzzy little prayer: "Please be in here."

He pulled his clothes out, flannels and boxers dropping to the floor, rooting around with only the kitchen light over one shoulder to help him. And there in the bottom, under an energy drink he forgot he'd even brought, wrapped around his phone with a couple of dusty, squashed Dots sticking to the foil packaging, was a strip of three condoms. Sam's stomach sank, but in the best possible way, arousal given permission to spread through him. He dropped his pack again and picked the candy off, heading back to Kurt's... room. He knew Rachel wasn't there, and no one else would be there, but it seemed crazy to leave the curtain open like it was. Still, Kurt was lounging under his blanket, knees propped up, and exhaled in relief as Sam came into view.

"Come here," he said, one hand tugging the blanket on the other side of the bed askew.

Sam rounded the bed, catching a glimpse of his own naked form in a full-length mirror Kurt had propped against one wall. The only thing he really noticed about it was just that his erection was full and so flushed compared to the rest of his skin, but he also dimly realized that Kurt had watched him scuttle to find the condoms and he hoped brunch hadn't made it to his butt yet. Kurt was looking at him right then, too, watching him climb in and slide his legs under the covers, eyes glazed.

"I'm – getting ready," he murmured, pink-faced.

It took Sam another few moments to catch on, and he probably only did that soon because his eyes landed on the bottle standing on Kurt's low bedside table, its cap still popped open. Just seeing it made Sam's imagination shoot straight back to what he'd been side-stepping earlier: the idea of Kurt in his bed like this, jerking it, hand slick with lube. He exhaled shakily, reaching out to touch Kurt's shoulder. He was still wearing his t-shirt, and Sam stroked the seam running to the arm of the shirt with tentative fingers.

Kurt's left arm curled up, his hand briefly bracketing Sam's, fine and smooth-skinned and smaller against his, then stretched as he reached out to grasp Sam's cheek. Sam's face warmed inexplicably. He was already flushed at the extremities and in every other conceivable way, too, but somehow heat rushed up into his cheeks to meet Kurt's touch. He watched Kurt's eyes searching his face restlessly, and he had no idea what Kurt was thinking at all, and just blinked at him as he stared back, imagination fitfully attempting to circle what Kurt was doing under the covers.

"Did you like kissing me?" Kurt asked him, cupping his cheek with a gentle palm.

Sam took that as an invitation, feeling Kurt's chest rise wildly in response as Sam's lips grazed his. Some part of him, the part of him that was aware this wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done, was wincing in fear now that they were going this far. He was kissing a guy. Kissing him and not stopping – kissing him and not becoming instantly satiated and secure that it wasn't for him, but instead kissing deeper, wanting Kurt to respond like he was, lead not by nearly involuntary desperation, but by willing curiosity. The rest of him was ignoring that, his heart hammering high in his ribcage as their noses rubbed softly and Kurt's mouth opened for him, tongue soft but unexpectedly eager licking against his in hot little coaxing flicks.

He wasn't expecting it, still totally entangled in the kiss, when Kurt's hand slid abruptly to his chest and pushed him away.

"On your back."

Dazed, Sam clunked onto his elbows, and Kurt wiggled there next to him, knees poking up under his striped coverlet. After a moment, he seemed satisfied with whatever he was doing and straddled Sam with a strange easy grace, his warm bare ass against Sam's thighs actually wringing a tiny, helpless noise from Sam's chest. Kurt's fingers plucked the condoms from his dumb hand and tore one off.

One of Sam's elbows slipped from under him, and then the other. This was really happening, his mind tried to tell him, but beyond the noise of the packet being opened, he couldn't grasp it and didn't try to. He just raked his teeth over his lip as Kurt's grip slid down his dick and steadied him for the feel of the condom rolling on. He always did that himself, but Kurt seemed as competent as he was, and just the one stroke of latex down his shaft felt weirdly good instead of just kinda weird with Kurt's fingers guiding it.

"Try not to move yet," Kurt told him lowly. "I need to take it kinda slow for a minute."

"Okay," Sam said. He would've said that to anything Kurt asked of him just then, even if Kurt had asked him to stop and go back out into the freezing rain to pick up a jar of peanut butter. "Don't let me hurt you."

"You won't."

His lungs caught mid-breath when Kurt just kind of... oh, fuck, sat on him, and it wasn't anything like he already knew. He could tell it was slippery but the grip of Kurt's body was much firmer, the muscles Kurt was allowing his cock to open, ease past, slide against completely different. He blinked so rapidly at Kurt that all he saw was the flutter of his own lashes and Kurt's brow furrowing in concentration, gentling as he blew out a soft stressed breath.

Then Kurt's hand shot from between his legs to grip tight at his shoulder, and it hit Sam all at once, that definite feeling of being inside someone, mid-fuck, and there was no going back and no use in clinging to normalcy by the skin of his teeth. He was having sex with Kurt. Heat flared massively in his belly, escaping from him in a hiccough of a noise.

"Good?" asked Kurt, the haziest hint of a grin on his lips.

Sam didn't know how to answer. "Good" didn't seem like the word _at all_.

"I love the look on your face," Kurt commented, sounding satisfied. Sam had no idea what look was on his face, but he kind of wanted to die, he was so simultaneously embarrassed and turned on, gut aching sharply. He tightened his jaw, pressing his lips into a line, and Kurt thumbed at his chin remorsefully, whispering, "No... no. Don't hide that mouth."

His lips stuck together awkwardly even as he slackened them again, but he stared up at Kurt to find a pleased expression and was rewarded with a kiss, their tongues catching as Kurt flexed and pushed his pelvis slowly. The movement was subtle but amazingly effective. Sam almost choked trying not to groan, fingers clenching at Kurt's knees and feeling their way up to his hips, where the cotton hem of Kurt's t-shirt rode. He pulled at it thoughtlessly, jerking it up Kurt's back and parting their kiss so he could pull it off Kurt's cooperative arms, that groan fighting its way out when he discovered Kurt was still wearing his wifebeater. His fingers grasped its thin cotton senselessly.

"You want it off?" Kurt muttered, seeming puzzled. He planted his hands on the mattress, thighs sliding and spreading as he rocked on Sam's dick.

"Uh – keep doing that," gasped Sam, this time cradling bare hips.

"Yeah," Kurt agreed in a huff, fucking Sam into the mattress deliberately, rhythmically, slow and easy.

Worked up fast, Sam's dick throbbed every time Kurt sighed, every time his hard-on brushed Sam's bare stomach, every time he felt Kurt's arm muscles flex and push. He was trying so hard not to move his hips, and Kurt hummed and purred at him, so that must have been good for him. He had no idea what to do to make it good for Kurt except let him take it slow, or however he wanted. But it was so strange – even though he wasn't doing anything he usually did, he still felt closer and closer to Kurt with every flush of pleasure Kurt wrung up from his gut, till it seemed impossible something felt this good and that he was actually sharing it with someone, and he couldn't imagine anything else being so good ever again. The air was warm, now, and the only light in the world that mattered lit up how flushed Kurt's throat had become.

In the muddle of body heat and trust, he grew steadily braver, fingers ruffling up Kurt's thin shirt as he dragged them up Kurt's sides and just pulled it up completely, hands wide and red from first the cold and then the heat as he flattened them to Kurt's pecs. Kurt huffed sheepishly, but Sam thought it was hot, the whole stretch of his torso and a great set of abs previously hidden, all leading in a V down to his cock swaying freely as he moved. 

Instinctively, Sam grasped at it, feeling how stiff and hot it was, and Kurt let out a high-pitched moan.

"Sam," he whispered in that same high register, spine bending impossibly to thrust his chest at the hand Sam still had up under his shirt.

It sounded vaguely reproachful, or like a protest, but Sam knew better – he could read that body language.

"Is that good?" he asked, too serious to be smug.

Kurt just slowed his roll, shoulders imperious as he ground himself on Sam, moving between Sam's dick and hand.

"God, I'm gonna – come," he whispered intently.

"Really?" Sam asked, groaning, equally split between aroused and elated. "Riding my dick and – fucking your dick in my hand?"

"Yeah. Sam –"

"Mm," Sam urged.

"Fuck me," Kurt got out, dropping his head till his breaths hung in Sam's ear and the delicate skin on his jaw scraped gently against Sam's cheek, stubble not quite there but definitely threatening, and Sam's hips bucked clumsily in response, pushing his dick deeper into Kurt than he'd been. Kurt squeaked, whimpered, then finally seemed to sob as Sam found a rhythm and fucked up into Kurt hard enough to make the mattress squeak. Come splattered up his chest and caught wetly in his fingers, heavy and slick, and Sam let out a harsh puff between them, startled and turned on by the familiarity of how it felt, heady with the undeniable fact that Kurt felt as good as he did. He hadn't expected it, exactly, even though Kurt had told him he was going to come, but he was so excited that his hand rushed to stroke out every drop he could get and his own dick strained inside Kurt. Kurt tossed his head back and breathed, "Fuck, fuck – Sam – _Sam_."

Sam groaned, gutted, something in him oversensitive to the sound of his name in Kurt's mouth like that.

Kurt stopped, sitting with Sam's cock deep up in him and his own still pulsing gently in Sam's hand, but barely let a second tick by before he panted, "Sit up."

Huffing, Sam did, taking Kurt with him, only wanting to moan again when he realized Kurt was seated snugly in his lap.

"Roll me over. Careful –"

But Kurt didn't need to tell him to be careful, and he let out a grunt of surprise at how easily Sam flipped them right over. It turned into a sigh as Sam's weight sank onto him, dick in him pressing him open in a newly invasive way, and his hands curled at the muscle of Sam's shoulders, gripping them for a second before he seemed to get ahold of himself. Sam eased onto his elbows, and their foreheads touched. For some reason it felt strangely vulnerable.

But this was slightly more like what Sam was used to – his instincts now were too deep to deny, taking over like they had when he'd kissed Kurt in the first place, and Kurt just let out an "Oh," as Sam's hips moved on their own. It was totally different, though, too. It felt like he was forcing Kurt's body open and taking something that didn't belong to him and it was so amazing to feel like this with Kurt, he wanted to just cry. Kurt slowly tugged his knees up, nodding and rubbing their noses together, sweaty, and whispered, "Yeah. Oh. Perfect, Sam. That's perfect," till Sam couldn't hear another word and shot off with his dick stuffing Kurt's ass. 

He was vaguely aware of Kurt holding his face, covering his lips with kisses, and breathing, "Sam. Sam."

Sam kissed him back, tight and hard and rattling inside.

 

*

 

Sirens.

That was Sam woke up to, again. Police or an ambulance or a fire truck racing by down below, making him lift his head from the pillow.

It felt early, but he didn't really know. It was gray outside.

"Damn sirens," Kurt muttered, somehow both incensed and mostly asleep. His eyes were closed, and he sighed, face half mushed into Sam's shoulder, falling back asleep as Sam looked at him. The slight crease of his brow disappeared.

Slowly, Sam lowered his head back onto the pillow, wanting more than anything not to wake Kurt up, and listened to the sirens gradually fade and disappear, only to be replaced by the sound of traffic. Cars and honking. The only words that popped into his head were _the city that never sleeps_. Because of the sirens, he added mentally, and blinked at the ceiling. He knew there was no way he was going to fall back asleep. It was warm in bed but he was flushing through with cold, sweating, holding himself so still he began to shake.

He was definitely going to wake Kurt up if he laid there any longer, so Sam inched away and let his legs drop over the side of Kurt's bed. He was so shaky and weak that he came to the quick conclusion that he had a fever. Or maybe he just needed to eat. Maybe he was actually freezing, since he was naked.

He blinked at himself in Kurt's mirror, which made him perfectly aware that his eyes were open wide and his mouth flattened, tense. His hair was sticking up.

He was gonna puke, he realized, and shifted up nakedly, making a beeline for the bathroom.

Once he was in there, though, door shut behind him, he knew he wasn't going to actually throw up. He closed the toilet lid – it slipped from his fingers onto the porcelain with a loud smack – and sank onto it, safe from the direct reflection of the mirror, quivering.

A lot of feelings passed through him, then. He couldn't really breathe and his limbs felt limp. He'd gone from ice cold to burning up and rubbed at his face, which was radiating heat. His heart was taking up too much room in his chest and felt like it was going to explode, it was beating so weird and crooked. Maybe he was having a heart attack. Maybe only half his heart was still working.

No, he knew that was stupid and he was fine.

What was he going to do? He tried to think, slouching over with his elbows on his knees, stilling himself, but didn't know what to think, so his head was weirdly empty. The position was comfortable, though, even on a cold toilet, because that was how he sat on the locker room bench back when he played football. Rubbing his hands together. Following Beiste's plays. His hands were freezing again. He rubbed them together. Rubbed them on his bare knees. Made his clenched up throat let him swallow.

Eventually, there came a tap on the door.

"Are you okay in there?"

Kurt.

Sam was totally naked, so he was glad it wasn't Rachel.

"Sam?"

"I feel kinda sick," said Sam.

Kurt paused. Sam could see his shadow under the crack of the door. 

"Sick how?"

"I'm hot. And cold." Sam didn't know how to explain it any better just then. "I feel weird."

"Can I come in?"

"Okay."

Sam's body steeled, and he blinked up at Kurt when Kurt peeked around the door at him. His hair was messed up, too. Sticking up. Curled onto his forehead. Sam felt sick just looking at him. Super sick. Super nervous. After examining him from the doorway, Kurt's worried, sympathetic expression waned into nothingness. He nodded for no reason.

"Come out of there, it's freezing. Here. You can wear my robe."

Kurt passed it to him, fresh off his body. It was a plain black, the fabric thin and silky.

"Put it on, then come out here where it's warm," Kurt told him firmly, and walked away, leaving the door open a crack.

Since he didn't know what else to do, Sam obeyed like a kid who was in trouble, folding it around his middle and tucking his arms over it, letting the tie dangle carelessly. It fell nearly to his knees, at least. He slipped out of the bathroom and saw Kurt pulling on a different robe. It was fluffy pink, so obviously he'd just picked up Rachel's.

"Do you feel sick because of what happened last night?" Kurt asked without turning around, busying himself with cinching the pink tie. "If you do, that's okay. I understand. It's hard for everybody, but I get that it's probably quite the adjustment for guys like you to come to terms with who you are."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, even though he was perfectly and painfully aware of what Kurt was talking about.

Kurt just shook his head. Almost light-heartedly, he said, "I knew it the second I laid eyes on you."

"Uh, you think I'm gay," said Sam.

"Sam," Kurt said, turning towards him with a look of superiority. He might have meant it to be sympathy, but it made Sam feel like he was back at the lunch table with Kitty, just poor trash. "You don't need to act all straight around me. You don't need to deny anything. I know, okay? We had sex. I know."

"Are you trying to tell me that I'm gay even though you know I'm straight?" Sam asked, arms folded tight.

"Are you trying to tell me you're straight even though you and I both know you're not?"

"I'm not gay," said Sam, so lightly he almost laughed, and he knew it sounded like a lie. It had never sounded so weird coming out of his mouth before.

"Yeah. Okay," drawled Kurt. "Save it for the God Squad."

"What the hell," Sam said, feeling lighter and lighter in a dizzy way, like he might pop into nothingness. "I'm not."

"Oh my lord, you are in there good and deep," Kurt said, staring at him like he was a real marvel to behold.

"I'm not in the closet!" snapped Sam. He could feel his voice rising into an actual yell. "I'm not hiding, I'm not acting straight. I'm not gay, okay! There's not anything wrong with being gay! I'm just not! I don't _like_ guys!"

It hit Kurt like something physical – like he had a row of lockers behind him and Sam was a jock who had just shoved him back up against them. He shut his eyes for a second, then lifted his chin stubbornly.

"So that was just some kind of experiment for you," he said, voice tremoring but low. "That's all. I don't believe it for a minute. You don't think you're gay, fine. That's your hang-up, not mine."

"You're right, it's my hang-up," said Sam, then angrily rephrased it. "It's my life you're talking about, like it's all some kind of lie, and all I do is lie all the time and put on a big act?"

"It's obvious you don't think it's a lie," retorted Kurt. "Did you marry Brittany because you love her? You're just so incredibly in love with her? She's your other half?"

Sam clenched his jaw, mouth pulled tight, his eyes stinging with anger. He didn't want Kurt to bring Brittany into this, but he just stood there and let him.

"You used 'The apocalypse is coming! The end is nigh!' as an excuse to get married to a gay girl you know doesn't love you? Gee, Sam. That's what healthy, normal straight guys do. I suppose if Mercedes hadn't moved to L.A., you would've found some way to marry her? Because your feelings for her were just so strong and she was just your type? I mean, girls are your type, right? If it's got a vag, you're all about getting up in it? Any girl will do? For fuck's sake." Kurt caught a breath, winded, and stalked towards his bed. "I guess what makes Brittany perfect for you is her disturbingly profound disconnect from reality, since you guys have that in common! Shared delusions are a great start to your new life together!"

"We're not married," huffed Sam.

"Thank the flying serpent god for that!"

Sam gulped. Tears were rolling down his face, an incredible torrent, and he was angry. Angry, yeah. He knew that marriage was a sham. Kurt didn't have to tear it a new one like that.

"I'm just trying to be happy."

"Girls are never gonna make you happy!" exclaimed Kurt, whirling around.

Sam wiped at his face, wheezing painedly. Kurt had seen him cry before, so he wasn't ashamed, just – angry – and naked – so naked in front of Kurt.

"Yeah," he said, and it was the hardest word he'd ever said.

Silently, Kurt went to his bedside stand and opened one of its drawers, and Sam crumbled even more. Couldn't this be over? He didn't want to cry. He didn't want this morning to be this – he wished he could rewind and start over still in bed with Kurt, roll over and hug him and go back to sleep. It could be a one night stand, them just messing around, and they could hug each other at the train station, and Sam would go back to Lima and sit in a red plastic chair and maybe ask out Kitty, rejoin the Left Behind Club and look forward to the Rapture.

Kurt arrived at his side with a handkerchief, one with pale blue and red stripes woven into the corners of the cobweb-soft old fabric just like the ones Sam had.

"I tried –" started Sam, but he couldn't continue.

"I know," Kurt told him.

Sam just shook his head, because Kurt might have had a sixth sense or whatever, but he didn't know. Still, Sam had come to New York not only for distance, but for comfort, and Kurt was the best comforter he knew.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he murmured, and patted Sam's cheek with the hankie. Fat tears rolled right into it and Kurt whisked them away. "I didn't mean to bite your head off. I just made it harder, didn't I?"

"This is my handkerchief," Sam rasped, instead of answering.

"Yeah, it is. You gave it to me at the hospital, when I was crying about Blaine's eye, remember?"

Sam nodded.

"I've been meaning to give it back to you," said Kurt, catching tears under Sam's chin with it. "But it's really good to cry into and I did a ton of that last spring, so it was really handy to have. And I thought it was so weird and cute that you carried a hankie."

Sam let out a choke of a laugh, closing his eyes tight to try and force all the tears out.

"Sam," Kurt said deliberately, quietly, "if you're not ready to... make any kind of decision or declaration, we don't have to talk about all this anymore. I'd never force you to do anything like that. Like you said, it's your life. I just think you should know that I wouldn't have hooked up with you just because I'm gay and you're a guy. It's just not the way I am. I care about you. We're – friends. Please just tell me if you regret it. I need to know, or I'll feel guilty for the rest of my life."

"I don't..." He paused, opened his eyes, and looked at Kurt, taking in his face and clear eyes and resolute expression, and had to shake his head and tilt it back to keep the tears that welled from spilling. "Not at all. Last night, I just – every time you got close to me it got harder and harder to... not... put my arm around you. I – kissed you. It's not your fault. You didn't do anything. It was me."

"It wasn't just you. I was there, too. On your dick."

Another awkward laugh busted out of Sam's lungs. Kurt gave him a smile and patted his cheek with the damp handkerchief, but Sam saw through it. It was the sad kind of smile, the forced kind.

"I have kind of a crush on you," blurted Sam, and felt himself tense and hold his breath for a second while Kurt blinked. It almost hurt his head to actually say it, especially because he meant it.

"You do?"

"You can't tell?" Sam asked.

"Your signals couldn't be more mixed if they were beaten into whipped cream," Kurt said, and tucked Sam's handkerchief into the pocket of Rachel's robe.

"Is it a mixed signal," said Sam, "if I kiss you while I'm crying?"

Kurt pursed his lips, swaying where he stood. "Mmm, a little, but... I really want you to anyway. I kinda have a little crush on you, too."

"Really?"

"Can't you tell?"

 

*

 

Later that afternoon, Sam and Kurt were sprawled on his bed, lazing like cats in a patch of sunshine or something.

It honestly felt like Sam had survived his own mini-apocalypse. The tearful kissing had dissolved into a shaky puddle of sex, and Sam wasn't and maybe would never be over the fact that Kurt had let him between his legs to finger him this time, lube him up and kiss his bare chest. He'd pushed Kurt's undershirt up and off and finally, finally, they were both naked, both revealed. They hadn't even made it to fucking. It had been too exciting just to fuck Kurt with his fingers and watch his hand wrap around his own dick, watch him get off just having Sam's fingers in him like that, and Kurt had enjoyed the fact that Sam had gotten so into it. He'd jerked Sam off slowly, with a light touch, and then Sam had cried a little more for no reason other than he felt emotionally maxed out and like he'd sprung a leak, but it wasn't bad. Kurt even seemed to think it was good for him.

"I wonder if Rachel's ever coming back," Kurt mused. "Maybe I should check and see if she texted."

Sam hummed and tucked his face against the back of Kurt's neck. If Rachel arrived home at that very moment, she'd walk through that sliding door and be able to immediately see him in Kurt's bed, naked, and their clothes in piles on the floor. At that moment, he actually didn't think it would be too bad. At least he wasn't gyrating to bad dance music with money sticking out of his underwear.

"Yuuup," said Kurt, phone in hand. "'Sleeping at Brody's! Seeing "Bare" tomorrow. You and Sam are invited!' Oops. Been there, done that."

"Hm?"

"Off-Broadway," Kurt replied. "Not your thing."

"You're my thing," Sam said muzzily. Kurt chuckled and settled back down beside him, scrolling thorugh his messages. Sam was sure his own phone, abandoned in his backpack, was probably dead, but he didn't care. He was a lot more interested in the way his nose fit just under Kurt's jaw and the smell of Kurt's skin.

"Look," Kurt cooed, "that video of me and Rachel on the _Big_ piano! Awww. Sam. Thank you for filming that."

Sam's lips pulled into a contented smile. He could hear the video playing on Kurt's phone, the slightly clunky rendering of "Heart and Soul" and the happy shouting coming from him behind the camera.

_Sam, you should play something!_

His own adoring voice: _No one in their right mind would follow that. You got the whole store's attention._

Kurt's, cheery: _That's okay, you don't have to play a song! Just go walk on it! It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance with no line... You definitely want to. I can see it in your eyes._ Teasing, playful. They were friends. Then, the more serious offer: _Do you want me to go on it with you?_

After a lot of shuffling, there came a jangle of electronic notes.

"Us," said Kurt, lips grazing Sam's hair.

Sam picked up his head to look at the screen of the phone, curiosity roused.

Someone – Rachel, he guessed – had recorded Sam and Kurt, too, keeping focus on them padding around in sockfeet together and going from a couple of random notes to a playing out a full song, slow and clumsy as it was. He saw himself on the screen, seriously concentrating on stepping on the right keys, and Kurt playing along with him, smiling over at him in a way Sam hadn't seen when they were actually there. It didn't seem like his own life he was witnessing, but there it was.


End file.
